Mist covers the lower villages along Atok in the early mornings, perfect for photo enthusiasts.

(The 16 hour joyride to Benguet)

        The 13 municipalities of Benguet are well spread out in a vast area, an area that is both awesome and consuming that seeing one should prod you to see all. Most often than not travelers would only see the tired roads along the routes, the winding piece of architecture planned and created by dear old Mr. Halsema of long ago. And the carved mountains of green, that is a given whenever Benguet is mentioned, no miss. Like the strawberries of La Trinidad, the mummies of Kabayan, the anthuriums of Kapangan, or the mines of Mankayan and Itogon, we rarely see the more fascinating stories behind some of the hidden trails of this province.

       Starting early on with a cup of coffee at 456 Restaurant, a group chatted away the expectations of the day. The coffee somehow dispelling the still clouding effects of sleep suddenly cut short and the heavy legs lumbering to walk the early, cold streets of Baguio. The bantering helped much, the hostilities of being forced out of bed slowly dawning to what was ahead, so the drive started plying La Trinidad. From across Magsaysay Road the houses at Km. 3 right on the other side of the river climb up the steep slopes to settle in a hive-like fashion, one directly beside or above each other that from afar they are like a sack of toy houses poured out to a mound.

       Leaving behind the façade of the Capitol on the Hill, we passed by Camp Bado Dangwa, police personnels and recruits strewn about cleaning the sorroundings in the light misty morning. A few more minutes and we were into a different territory, the smell of chicken dung permeating the air to sting the nasal passages and filling up the lungs to bursting, Shilan to this day was cleared of them, moved closer to Tublay. I sometimes think it is a trend in this parts to have a truck moving, filled halfway with sacks of chicken dung when moving in (or filled to overflowing with vegetables when going out) and a live chicken or two seated atop the sacks, balancing on tied feet while the truck maneuvers the curves of the road, wings flapping every now and then to keep from falling. Poor chicken.

       The evidences of last year’s tragedy still scars the municipality and have not had enough time to heal yet, the eroded mountains could be sighted from the roads and I wince to the thoughts of retrieved bodies buried in them. Below is the Sto. Nino Mining community which has ceased operating years ago. The thick, circular stone walls reminded me of a Roman arena,  and the echoing shouts of glee as spectators egg on the clashing gladiators fighting to death. To this day this “arena” is silent, except for the lingering bitter-sweet life and work memories of thousands of miners who once toiled to excrete the golds from the bowels of these mountains.

       Further ahead on the left side from the toll gate is Kapangan, the land of cucumbers they say. Not to me. I don’t see much of the product anymore. For so many years documenting the place, “sayote” I guess crawls up and down the mountains, covering hectares of once pristine landscapes from Tublay, to Kapangan to Kibungan to Bakun. Thankful for once in my mind that in those years I have seen beautiful and secret places not often shown to most. Those thoughts at this moment compensates for my dismay looking up the viney sayote carpets.

       The cold morning saw us shivering our way to Atok. Over the expanse to the right we could see and almost hear the roaring of the mighty Ambuklao of Bokod. Moving a bit and then we stopped. Viewed from this site is the highest point in Benguet, the tip hidden and touched by clouds. I wonder what mystery lies in that peak. One day I will have to climb that height to find out. Famous for its foggy vegetable terraces we could see bonneted and hooded people starting out the daily rituals. Their thick parkas padding little children from the frosts, blushing cheeks peeking out of them like little Eskimos, sunning themselves along the highway routes. Old men and women who have long retired from the daily gardening chores stay behind to care for their grandkids, or just while away their time tending to the little everyday clutter of the home. The lined faces like maps, tracing every emotion of joy and sadness passed along the highways of life.

       Breakfast at Al’s Restaurant was a blast. Shooing away cramped muscles with a few stretches, our hosts fed us a mountain. The 2 tables we occupied were filled to the inch, and we grew with breakfast. My tummy belching out like an uncomfortably tucked in shirt spilling at the edges. Looking at the rest of the group, they looked worst so I sighed in relief. I gave Al’s and our hosts a thumb up rating.

       Reaching another point we were sandwiched in between a portion occupied by Bakun and Buguias. I was almost fascinated by the highway margins, how we get to travel the long stretch passing one municipality and in the middle of it is an inserted slice of another one. Buguias Ahoy! Land of potatoes. And cabbages. And carrots, and peas, and radishes, and tomatoes, and and…. Mix them all together and it’s a salad bowl, a huge salad bowl.

       Mankayan on the left downwards road from the market area of Buguias was a sudden change of scenery. It was hot and humid but the clean and empty winding roads to the municipal central was rather good, until maybe the separate barangay roads still unpaved. Like the Provincial Capitol, the Municipal Hall of Mankayan sits atop a hill overlooking most of everything. From this knoll is the covered court below and the assorted rides and small shops leading to the market. A church can be viewed from here and way beyond to the right is the school. Very evident is the cascaded area swallowed into the sinking portion where they say the underbelly was hollowed out by decades of mining operations. The expanse was large that the school is now endangered, hopefully be spared from further erosion.

       Going back up to Buguias and taking the Loo direction we decided to take the rarely used Abatan (Buguias) – Gurel (Bokod-Kabayan) Road. Out host checking the underside of the car was sweating in profusion, thinking what the hell possessed him to agree to do this in the first place. If cars could talk, this one would curse. Most of the roads were still unpaved, from sticky mud to roads unlike a dried out river bed, or those that are really bad they almost seem like rough coral beds taken out of Atlantis and thrown in the uplands and landed in Benguet. Our butt-sides and the top of our heads turned to mush from the slamming and banging it got from the trip, and yet we were alive. Like children in an awe-gaping adventure, unmindful that our host and driver was sweat drenched and spasmodically driving just to get out of the forsaken roads. The areas along the route were mostly isolated and for me looked lonesome. Yet again the word FREEDOM shouting out in flashes. The air is fresh and the sorroundings silent. All along the way we counted 7 bridges finished with the end of the past administration’s term. Then Kabayan was on sight.

       From this point, the terrain is a shifting challenge. Passing by the elevated areas were vegetable gardens too. We could view the protruding peak of the famed Mt. Pulag which at way past 4 in the afternoon is still shrouded in clouds. Probably even raining there for all we knew. The mysteries there are well kept, known only to the earth and sky that bound it. I hope it stays that way. I hope too that the itchy hands of agriculture and commerce would not creep up to dig its soul. Then from just outside the front yard of the museum we had to walk all the way to the Kabayan Municipal Hall to give the car a breather. Right at the moment we disembarked, the car sighed and flopped to rest awhile.

       Getting out of Kabayan was another thing, the views were as usual captivating even with its flaws but then we were only a hundred meters when the mountain eroded along a portion of the road. Glad we were not caught in it so we sat it out for half an hour with the sun setting on our heads. Clearing done, Bokod and Itogon whizzed by outside. The sound of the dammed river roaring hoarse lulling us to doze off the days adventures. And still our host sweat it out to get us back to Baguio and shake off the horrors of the road trip….the car farted one last time and sped off for home.