Bukidnon by Arnold P. Alamon

BUKIDNON has always evoked awe and mystery for us people of the Bay. After all, we lowland dwellers lie at its bosom, cradled by her mysterious mass and shadow.

The Mangima Canyon. The magnificent drop of her crevice and her glorious jagged peaks, in the midst of which we, humans, like ants, built snaking ribbons of asphalt where we busily trudge up and down. Sticking my neck out of the vehicle, cool mountain air blows strong almost suffocating and then gazing upwards; there was always the recognition, even as a kid, that I am before the ancient, the timeless.

Many years since then, the place still evokes that same mystery and strength. It is more palpable at night when the engines of agriculture take a break and the stores shut their lights and windows for the night. With the cry of the cicadas as their cue, the wild takes over the dark lonely highways and on her hidden cleavage secret campfires without smoke.

When I was younger, I had the privilege of climbing her highest peak, Kitanglad. And I can say, two decades later that I have never done anything as exhilarating and wondrous. Standing atop this gigantic mound of rock, below you the valleys, the mountains, the rivers, even the clouds. In the distance are the twinkling lights of the place called Cagayan. I felt like an extra-terrestrial gazing down at a faraway galaxy that was my home.

In this place at night, it is colder outside than your air conditioned room. So you open your windows and let the cool mystery in. And she whispers, I know you. You were born here. Understand.

I remember mornings in this place with my mother and father. They call me kimpi, knees somewhat locked. As a consequence, the side of my rubber sandals always put a straight swath of mud on my inner ankle. It bothered me but they didn’t mind.They were busy dreaming of coffee bounty, bales and bales of breakfast aromas for the family that never came.

I was born here, or to be accurate, I was made here. It must have been one of those cold mornings that my parents had to make fire with their bodies and I was the end result.

It was industry, the industry of pineapple plantations that brought my parents here. And that same industry has brought my consciousness back to this place. From the lowland where my parents eventually settled and upwards through her silted rivers and bald forests, my thoughts gallop to her scarred timelessness.

Because what have we done to this place? We have ploughed the land too deep to make profit for a few. And she bled a torrential flood of rocks, logs, and mud. We have become conquerors of our fellow oppressed just because some other conqueror vanquished us where we came from. And we bleed real blood, drop by drop, for forty years.

There is a bond that exists between this place and ours, me and her - one that revealed itself disastrously that early December morning many moons ago.

The thing is, after we are done with her, she will remain standing majestic and unforgetful. While we, like ants, are washed out to sea.

from: http://www.sunstar.com.ph/cagayan-de-oro/opinion/2013/06/06/alamon-bukidnon-286129