After walking past stretches of “the baths,” I reached Lalakay, my final destination for this walk. As an enormous truck approached, I crossed the pedestrian lane, running for my life. I heard its brakes screech.
I walked past the school. I was looking for a signboard pointing to Dampalit Falls but couldn’t find it. I saw an eskinita that seems familiar. This might be it. To be sure, I looked for a local to ask. There was an early Christmas Party at the school. Or was it part of the barangay festivities? It was Lalakay’s barangay fiesta. Vertical flags of various colors adorn its streets. A lady was watching the event inside her sari-sari store, so I peeked and asked her, “Is this the way to Dampalit?” She said yes, and I thanked her.
This walk to Dampalit was surprisingly faster than the first walk I did here early this year. Before a steep hike, one would pass by bungalows through a small eskenita, just large enough to fit a tricycle. But the road is too steep; only motorcycles and bicycles can access it. Locals earn a small amount for parking fees. But since one can only bring bicycles and motorcycles, I don’t think they get enough money from parking fees. One house has a signboard with rates. Ten pesos for bicycles. Twenty pesos for motorcycles. I was surprised to see thirty pesos for cars. A car won’t fit this eskinita!
As I approached the entrance to the falls, a group of children came to me and asked, “Are you going to the falls?” I said yes. “Do you know how to get there?” I said yes, and they left me alone.
The water is cold here. Really cold. All silence is broken. But here is a sound so alluring I don’t think I can live without it again. The strength of the falls depends on the season. There was not much rain the past three days but there was lots of it last week. The strength of the water falling is not as strong as I remember it. I like it better this way—a steady, soothing rhythm.
We are all pilgrims. A pilgrim approaches something she holds dear and shows deep care or perhaps even just a brief effusion of awe toward it. But what if the germ from which awe and deep care come is even way simpler than both? What if this desire to break the monotony of one’s days, to experience something different for the first time, even if it is as simple as posing in front of a camera, is where all our religiosity comes from?
I have a pretty good feeling it is.