The Mountain Air

Flowers greet us every time we arrive. Bright orange, brighter than citrus fruits, soft periwinkles, fuschia pink, yellow ones that resemble that giant orb in the sky, blue violets too that remind one of dusk. As I alight from our truck, the wind, cold but not freezing, blows brushing gently my cheeks as if prodding, "Remember me?" The mountain air greets me too.

"Ate Nancy, can these flowers grow in our garden?"I asked having not a single green thumb in my body. She is amused at my question. She, who has filled her home with all the above-mentioned beauty. Ping, the 17 year-old guide, who wants to be a teacher spent the week at our home doing part-time work, smiled. She knows there are no flowers like these in our home. There are only fruit trees in our backyard.

Kuya Danny, the oldest of the mountain guides arrives. He is around fifty years old yet looks a decade younger, his jovial heart two decades younger. We recall a few months ago how he carried an injured climber on his back for a good one hour. He tells us a story of how he was able to find an antidote for an allergic rash that fell upon another climber. The antidote came from the very plant that caused the rash. But of course the way he tells the story is far more animated and comedic. I tell him on our next climb, he will be my personal guide.

Kuya Rodel and Isaiah, also mountain guides, arrive shortly. Kuya Rodel, who schooled me on the Sulfur rocks at Mt. Aminduen in May and Isaiah who amidst the deafening roar of the winds at the same mountain in March, who told us that the wind came from the Pacific Ocean, who sang and swayed as he guided us through the steep climb down the hot springs. The conversation lengthens for another hour at least.

"The guides come to our home," Kuya Ramil says to me. He is the head guide here in Cabintan. The goodness of his heart is a spring that flows. The mountain guides gather at his place every now and then. They converge and converse. The mountains, their stage. The wind, their witness. The rain, their friend. It had rained ceaselessly the night before and this morning. Even in summer, rain prevailed. The climate here is one that can only be described as comforting.

The mountain air fills my lungs. I close my eyes briefly and take it all in-- our conversations, our laughter, our insights, the simple realization of how there is so much peace here in Ate Nancy's Garden, in Kuya Ramil's presence, in Kuya Rodel's pockets of knowledge, Isaiah's singing and in Ping's dreams for her future.

"I'll grow a bunch of these flowers for you and then you can get it by December," Ate Nancy remarks. She hands me freshly picked Saging Tundan to bring home. It is time to go.

We thank her and leave. Ate Nancy's garden of colors are the last things I see as our truck backs up and I hear the turning of the wheels. A short while later, our windows fog up. Of course, as the mountain air greeted us when we arrived, she sent us off too. With a promise of flowers already grown, I know she said "See you again very soon."

Barangay Cabintan

October 31, 2017