Guyam Island, Siargao, Surigao del Norte: Photo by pal Donavan Albert
We were alone. Where, I could not say, hardly imagine. All was black, and such a dense black that, after some minutes, my eyes had not been able to discern even the faintest glimmer.
– Jules Verne
Hagakhak means cackle. Sailors will tell you that when you hear the “cackle”, that it’s time to leave the island, after which it was named. The winds begin to swirl and course down the hillside and through the thick groves of coconut trees. The tide rolls in with a fury. The superstitious—which include almost all those who live by and depend on the sea—believe that the uninhabited islet, a couple of hours off the Surigao mainland, is haunted. But then again, if one collects all the local lore across the province, then spirits touch all the nearby islands.
Seamen will tell you that right before dawn is the best time to leave for Hagakhak Island. By two in the afternoon, they will scramble to push the boat from its sandy shores and head back towards the mainland at full speed—as if chased by witches brandishing swords or spells.
Just before sunrise—a couple of days after Skerdi arrived in Surigao City to meet my family for the first time—a large party of friends and relatives set sail for Hagakhak Island. Skerdi stood at the prow of our yellow catamaran and looked out at the water—shallow and still. The sun was just peeking above the horizon; it was yawning and gently fluffing the sea ahead, so that ripples and eddies converged into whirlpools. A crewman stood with his feet at an angle atop at the left balancer of the boat. He was reading the submerged map of corals, navigating us into a route of deeper water, but avoiding the whirlpools, into which people and small boats have fallen and funneled straight into hell, many have said. Others less spooked out say the dead end up in Leyte, a province in the visayas, just north of Surigao.
Skerdi had heard the tales being spun and passed around as we set sail, but he remained unfazed. Communism, he had once told me, had eradicated religion and superstition. Ghosts and God were not allowed to exist. Instead, he saw the landscape ahead of him with eyes of a man who had long wanted to fulfill his dreams. That morning, he was Robinson Crusoe.
When we glided into a lush maze of islets, like marbles spilled across velvety waters, Skerdi looked back at me; I looked up from my book on ancient civilizations. He shook his head disapprovingly. How could one read when such a world unfolded in front of us? He motioned for me to join him, but I shook my head. Admittedly, I was afraid to walk the length of the narrow catamaran and fall into the water inadvertently.
My mother’s first cousin joined him instead. Uncle Leo, in shorts, had tied his t-shirt around his head. Aviator sunglasses sat on the bridge of his nose, while he balanced his way to the front, carrying a thermos and a paper bag. He stood beside Skerdi, who clapped him on his shoulder. Uncle Leo poured out some coffee into the lid of the thermos and offered it to the other. Then, he reached into the paper bag and pulled out a couple of hot buns. Skerdi reached in for some as well. Together, they ate their breakfast in silence. The husband of Uncle Leo’s youngest sister joined the duo.
“Good morning, Skerdi,” Joy said. Although he was a few years older than me, I still called him uncle. “Did you sleep well?” He alluded to the previous night’s indulgence in coconut wine.
Skerdi laughed, “No, Liza would have killed me if I didn’t show up this morning at the pier.”
“Oh, already you are under the saya,” Uncle Joy nudged him with his elbow.
Perplexed, Skerdi looked at Uncle Leo, who sniffed his menthol inhaler. “Joy is teasing you Skerdi. He means you are under the skirt.”
“Oh? What does that mean?”
Uncle Leo took another bite out of his third pan de sal and said with a shrug of his shoulder, “You know…under.”
Joy piped in, “The woman stands over you. So you are under her skirt. She is in control.”
The three sipped their coffee at the same time and then burst into laughter that echoed across the cliffs of the smaller, inner channel we had just passed through. Birds scattered in fright.
Skerdi continued to chuckle as he said, “Well, Joy, a real man is afraid of his woman.”
“Well, then, Leo is a true man!” Uncle Joy bent over laughing; the older man pushed his sunglasses up his nose.
Uncle Leo looked over at his wife. “You know Skerdi, I am a lucky man. My wife has endured me for over 13 years.”
“Correction, suffered,” Auntie Tata yelled out with a laugh.
The men moved closer back to where we had been sitting. Skerdi sat with his back leaning against mine, his legs stretched out in front of him, ready to trap the rays of the sun. I closed my book. Uncle Leo stood in front of his wife, who pulled him into a kiss, which he made a show of trying to resist before succumbing into her strong embrace. He looked at Skerdi and rolled his eyes. Not wanting to be outdone, Uncle Joy sat beside his wife, Marisyl, and tried to sneak a peck.
Auntie Marisyl, a pretty, no-nonsense senior nurse at the local provincial hospital, elbowed her husband in the gut. “Hilas!” She berated him for being unabashedly cheesy.
Those of us on deck howled at the display. Even Skerdi joined in.
Welcome, welcome!
Two hours into Skerdi’s adventure, we heard drumbeats reverberate in the channel, but no one was around. Most of the islets we had passed were too steep to be inhabited. The music became louder as we went deeper into the passage. The captain’s aide at the front of the boat held a 6-foot long bamboo pole upright, ready to push the boat away from the jungle of sharp corals beneath.
Skerdi looked overhead at the circling terns. Awed by the primitive atmosphere, he whispered, “I feel like I’ve just been transported back in time.”
I squeezed his hand. “One could get lost here.”
“I know. I might start believing some of your ghost stories about this place.” He pointed to the liana vines that dripped and hung like fringes at the bottom of the cliffs. Several silver fish, thin like needles, broke the surface of the water and followed an arch to dive back below the coolness below.
“Every legend is grounded on truth, you know? Sometimes it’s a way of making sense of reality.”
I told him of the town of Numancia—which is now called Del Carmen. Settled by Spanish missionaries in the late 1500’s, it was once thought to be haunted by witches that preyed on local fishermen, who would paddle out in the morning into its thick mangroves. At dusk, only their banca, or canoe, would reappear on the coast, empty of human and haul.
“And so what caused the disappearance of the fishermen?”
“A crocodile,” I said, as Skerdi looked with renewed awe at the still waters. “Yup, these mangroves are home to a rare and endangered saltwater crocodile.”
Our catamaran cleared the channel, and the sound of drums beat louder. We heard horns and cheering in the distance. Portside, a village had gathered at their wooden pier, and the townspeople were clapping and waving at us. None of us could discern what was being said. Skerdi stood. The crowd waved at him; he waved back. A sign was held high in the air. It read, “Welcome! Welcome!”
Skerdi grinned at the effusive gesture. He came over and kissed me. “Honey, that was really touching, but you didn’t have to do that,” he whispered.
Confused, I replied that I had not arranged the welcome. Skerdi looked at me skeptically.
Uncle Leo leaned over and said, “Well, gossip travels fast in Surigao, even across these waters. You are after all a local celebrity.”
The captain passed the island. He directed the catamaran towards Barangay Cantiasay—another small seaside village—to gather more supplies. The country’s longest footbridge, spanning 391 meters, is located in Cantiasay. On the way there, we passed a couple more towns. At each one, the villagers once again gathered at their ports to welcome our boat with music and cheers.
Uncle Joy nudged Skerdi from the back. “Man, stand up! This is all for you.”
Blushing, Skerdi waved. “What are they saying?”
“I think ‘Welcome, Terminator!’”
“Terminator?” Auntie Marisyl asked. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Look at him, Syl.” Skerdi wore gray shorts, a gunmetal colored shirt and dark sunglasses. “He looks like an action star.”
Uncle Leo clicked his tongue. “Joy, you’re crazy. They are saying ‘Welcome Spectator!’”
With the palm of her hand, Auntie Tata smacked her husband’s forehead. “Leo, you don’t make sense. Why would they say ‘spectator’?”
“Because, Tata, he is spectating, of course.” Uncle Leo raised Skerdi’s left arm in the air, and the crowd on land cheered.
The debate continued until our party reached Barangay Cantiasay. The town leader, or barangay captain, accompanied by a trio of musicians and a woman with garlands of flowers in her arms, met us. We hopped onto the sun-bleached port.
“Welcome! Welcome!” The barangay captain greeted us.
His wife—the woman holding the garlands—placed lei around Skerdi’s neck, while a young girl came forward with a coconut.
Skerdi took the offered drink, and sipped the juice through the straw. “I can’t believe I’m drinking this. A coconut! A real coconut!”
The musicians started playing again, while the towns’ folks who had joined us at the pier cheered, “Welcome, Evaluator!”
My mother and I looked at each other. I asked them to repeat what they had just yelled. Once again, they shouted, “Welcome, Evaluator!”
“What’s an evaluator?” Skerdi asked while still sipping his drink.
The barangay captain laughed and said, “That’s you my friend. I mean, aren’t you the evaluator?”
“No, I am the Albanian.”
Murmurs of confusion swept across the small crowd. “You are not here to inspect our town?”
Uncle Leo stepped forward and clarified that we were there to purchase drinks and goods that we could bring to Hagakhak.
The barangay captain smiled. “Well, come…come. If you have time, please let me show you around our humble place.” Cantiasay was a clean, quiet barrio with gentle people, who subsisted mainly on fishing and the crops that grew on small lots—from bananas to rice to a variety of fruits.
Skerdi pointed to a cluster of bananas. “I’ve never seen a banana tree before. What’s that hanging from the middle?”
“The heart, Skerdi,” my mom replied. “You can even eat that. We cut it up and boil it and add coconut milk, peppers, vinegar and onions. And the leaves of the banana are used to wrap food before putting it on the grill or in a steamer.”
Uncle Joy emerged from one of the homes carrying a banana leaf. “Skerdi, you said you missed bread. Here have some. It’s colo, or breadfruit.” Uncle Joy pointed to the large green, spiny fruits growing from the tallest trees in the lot. A woman holding a jar of brown sauce approached us.
Uncle Joy said, “Try this.”
“What is it?”
“Latik, coconut jam.”
Skerdi dipped the colo into the thick spread. His eyelids fluttered as he savored the treat. “Can I have a spoon? This is amazing.”
We all walked back to the catamaran after walking across the famous footbridge and chatting with the residents of Cantiasay. My mom thanked the barangay captain for his hospitality. As we were ready to set sail, we heard drumbeats start anew from the neighboring island.
The barrio leader smiled and waved at us. He pointed to the distant shore, “Ah, the real evaluators.”
Hagakhak Island
Several rock outcrops, like stony icebergs, looked as if they were slowly rising from the waters around Hagakhak Island. The sea surrounding the islet was deeper than around the others we had just passed or visited. Our crew had mentioned that the area was a favorite of divers and fishermen for the rich sea life beneath. We headed towards the thin strip of light brown sand ahead. A rustic wooden shelter with a picnic bench was erected between two coconut trees. There was also an outdoor oven made of white smooth stones. The captain let the waves carry the boat onto the sand. Skerdi stood and surveyed the scene around him. He bent over the side of the boat. The water was clear, nearly invisible.
Skerdi walked halfway down the plank and then jumped into the shallow water. He sunk down on his knees and removed his sandals. Then he washed his face, partially made sticky by the coconut jam, with the warm salty seawater.
“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m here!”
“Enjoy it, honey, we only have a couple of hours here. Paradise is fleeting.”
I too jumped in—hesitant at first. When I was 16, on an island hopping expedition, I once dove from a boat into a crystal clear lagoon. I had misjudged the its depth and ended up scraping the length of my entire left shin against the top of a reef. But our catamaran had cleared any corals. It was just sand all around.
Skerdi and I threw our rucksacks far into the shore, away from the waves. As we sifted the sands with our feet and hands, we heard a cackle. Skerdi shook his head, “That was a monkey.”
“Monkey? The island is uninhabited.”
“Yea…of people.” He pushed me, so I fell back into the water. Skerdi laughed, heady from the experience.
The rest of our party of friends and relatives walked to the shelter between the trees. Like most Filipinos, they stayed away from the sun to avoid turning brown and coarse. Auntie Lillia, another of my mother’s cousin, started cooking rice on the outdoor stove. Uncle Joy heated up the coals; while one of the crewmen set up a hammock between two other coconut trunks.
The sun was high overhead, and the island—nay, the thin strip of beach—belonged to us. If we had actually owned it, we wondered, what would we build on it.
“Nothing,” I remarked.
Skerdi closed his eyes and imagined. “I would build a secret home hidden from view by the trees with a steps leading to the water.”
“You know, the house would be haunted.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
Later, Skerdi joined Uncle Joy and two crewmen holding spears and nets by two longboats They pushed those off from the shore, ran into the waves and then hopped into the bobbing vessels. Together, they paddled in unison. Skerdi sat astern. He turned back to wave at me. They were going to catch our lunch.
Thirty minutes later they reappeared—with a bounty of plump fish. They landed several meters away from us, where Skerdi watched as the fish were gutted, scaled and rinsed in the waves. Uncle Joy carried the bundle and promptly laid the fish across the grill. Smoke rose into the air, as he waved it away with a palm frond.
Moments later, Uncle Joy placed the charred fish across banana leaves placed lengthwise down the table, cobbled out of halved bamboo stalks. My mother took the head of one fish—the cheeks and eyes were her favorite parts; while I grabbed the steaming roe sack. Uncle Leo carved out a large chunk of the sweet fish and placed it in front of Skerdi, who then dipped it into the small saucer filled with soy sauce, the juice from calamansi, or Philippine lime, and chili peppers. He ate with his finger, scooping rice and then fish into his mouth.
After we ate, our group dispersed. Some paced the shoreline, while others napped—in the hammock, on the sand, or back on the boat. Skerdi and I sat on the beach and let the waves wash over our legs during the last few minutes we had on the island. The tide was coming in fast. To our left, the catamaran was bouncing vigorously, loosening the plank away from the boat. The crewmen pulled on the ropes that had been tied around coconut trees and pulled the boat closer in.
We suddenly heard the cackle rise out of the top of the islet. Skerdi still believed it was a monkey, and not a witch, that made the spooky sound. No one cared, though, for the winds grew stronger, and the tide crashed against the beach angrily. It was time to go.
As we headed back to the mainland, the boat listed from side to side. It heaved and then sunk with each wave that chased it. Occasionally, a douse of water washed over the deck. Many had scrambled inside, where they trembled and prayed. The sea had become a powerful enemy, and we were at its mercy. A few of us remained stubbornly on deck, but we held onto the railing, in case we were flung from the boat. Only Skerdi remained calm, smiling.
“Honey!” I shouted, over the increasing fury of the winds and waves. “You need to hold on! You can’t swim! Hold on! Or go inside.”
Skerdi—wet from the mist that sprayed upwards and then settled on our skins—watched our boat speed forward. He roared out a guffaw.
“Whoooeeee!” He said, “I am Robinson Crusoe!”
He laid back down on top of the deck; his head was propped up by my backpack, from which he pulled out the book I had been reading. And serenely he read the rest of the way back, as the waves kept the rest of us shivering, silent and imprisoned in fear.
Paradise Revisited
Isla Daku, or the Big Island: Photo by Donavan Albert
A few days after our excursion to Hagakhak Island, Skerdi and I–along with 20 others—boarded a passenger ferry for Siargao. We were headed for General Luna, on the eastern side of the island. Tourists that eschew the more popular resort or beach destinations in the Philippines—like Boracay or Palawan—prefer this still undeveloped, less commercial attraction. Surfers from around the world make a pilgrimage to the region, in order to surf at nearby Cloud Nine.
Our group opted to stay at a small resort—a group of no-frills cottages by the beach. It had a central outdoor dining area, a kitchen and a water pump, where many of us bathed using buckets to pour the cold ground water over our skins, dusty and heated from the journey. By the time we had settled in, the sun was disappearing. We would explore the nearby islands the next day.
Skerdi and I walked out along the boardwalk and watch the world darken around us. Behind us, raucous laughter broke through the silence. Where we stood, only the stars and the planktons in the sea shimmered.
Skerdi pulled me into his arms, “Finally, we’re alone.”
“Has it bothered you that we haven’t had time together?”
He gathered me closer, “No. I know you’re family means everything to you.”
“Thank you. I know it’s hard. You’ve traveled so far from Albania to be with me. And we’ve rarely been alone, just the two of us.”
Skerdi put his arm around my shoulder. “In another week and a half, we’ll be flying away from each other—me to Tirana, you to the US. We won’t see each other for another three or four months. This time we have now—whether alone or with others—that’s what I’m focusing on, and I want it to last.”
“I told you, paradise is short-lived.”
“So let’s have fun. Don’t worry so much.”
Skerdi clasped my hand in his, and we walked back to the others. We listened to the ribald stories and bawdy jokes over a feast that the resort owners had prepared for us. Jumbo squid and prawns were grilled and heaped on a platter. Cubes of fresh fish were prepared ceviche-style in a marinade of coconut milk, palm vinegar, chilies, onions and ginger. Skerdi avoided this dish, kinilaw; instead, he preferred the skewers of pork barbeque—loin and pork belly, previously marinated in lime juice and soy sauce and then grilled. We also ate steamed saba, three-inch plump bananas, with ginamos, anchovies cured in salt. For dessert, we fought over a cornucopia of fruits, including papaya, pineapple and sliced guava, which we dipped into rock salt.
The next day, several motorized canoes waited to shepherd us a few miles across the water to Isla Daku, or the Big Island.
“Let me show you something,” I told Skerdi, who followed me over the crest of a sand dune.
“Oh wow,” he exclaimed when a wide expanse of golden sand stretched out before him; the beach was flanked on the left by groves of palm and coconut trees and on the right by crystal blue waters.
“I have another surprise for you,” I teased. “I’ve made arrangements for us—just you and me—to stay longer.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we’ll be moving to a cheap pension closer to the center of town.”
“Do you think I can call long-distance while we’re here?”
“Of course. Your parents?”
Skerdi nodded, “Yes, they’ll want to know if I’m ok and what I’ve done. I want to tell them I’ve ridden boats from island to island. I’ve eaten mangoes, breadfruit, coconut and goat. Truly, my favorite book has come to life.”
We spent the rest of the day with my family exploring and frolicking in the sands of Isla Daku. Locals stopped often at our shack by the sea to sell us the catch of the day or fresh baked goods, like rice cakes made of cassava and coconut. In the afternoon, we took the canoes to Guyam Island across the strait. There, Skerdi was perched on a rock eating grilled bananas and drinking more coconut juice. His chest had turned a golden shade of brown. He looked out towards General Luna and Isla Daku. In between the two larger islands, an embankment of white sand suddenly rose from the water.
“What’s that?” He asked Uncle Leo.
“Naked Island,” the other replied.
Naked.
Naked Island was disappearing, as the tide washed over the breakers a few miles beyond. Skerdi and I needed to get into the canoe, where our guide waited. He watched us from the beneath the brim of his wide, woven hat. Skerdi, in cobalt swim trunks, lay motionless on the white powder. The water surrounding the sandbar was rising. We had spent most of the day lying on the beach—just us. The others had already headed back to the mainland days before.
It was our last day.
Skerdi looked at me. Unshielded, the sun had bronzed my skin; freckles dotted my cheeks, like islets in the water. We had been silent while we stretched out and burrowed our feet in the white sand. We both wondered what the landscape of our lives would be like once we sailed back to shore and flew away from paradise back into the reality of being apart.
Would we stay together? Would we ever come back here?
I must have said my thoughts out loud, for Skerdi answered. “You worry too much. Just know I love you. That should be enough.”
Li, ilakip an sa Guyam experience namo he he he
Photos are amazing, and of course the story…:)