"Buck up, Celine. You’re already here," I told myself over the rumble of the engine.

I was on a  motorcycle on the way to Linan – a community of the indigenous Blaan people, located on the foot of Mount Matutum in Tupi, South Cotabato. I was to spend the night there before hiking up the mighty mountain in the morning. There in a place among strangers, where the only light at night were the moon and the stars, and the music of the forest was lullaby.

When I arrived, it had already started to get dark, so I get right to handing out candies to the kids. By the time I’d finished distributing lollipops and chocolates, daylight had already gone. With the aid of the faint bluish light of my phone’s screen, I fumbled back to my host family’s hut.

Outside the hut, I saw the father butcher a chicken. It was to be our meal that night. Before heading back to the kitchen, he told me to stay put and just enjoy the clear night sky, to which I happily obliged. I sat on the makeshift bench and closed my eyes. In a few hours, I would be a year older.

It hadn't been easy. This solo trip – my first – had almost ended even before it began. I'd been late for my flight, leaving me no choice but to purchase another ticket that cost half of my pocket money. To make matters worse, I had ended up in Davao, requiring me to take a five-hour bus ride to Tupi.

If I were to paint a mural of my home, these are the strokes my brush would make: soft curves of silver for the lake and shore, green swirls and clumps for foliage, a trace of muted grays for the silhouette of distant cities, and daubs of purple-orange for dawn. The colors in the known spectrum might not be enough however, and the patterns I could make insufficient, for Angono is inimitable; her character, already an artwork.

Calling her "the hinterlands" wasn't my idea. It was Christian's. Between conversations about stock photos and mental health, the topic of hometowns somehow came about. He was from Malabon – just like him to conjure images of rice fields and nipa huts upon mention of my town. Typical. My initial reaction, of course, was to contradict him. "Hinterlands" sounded derisive. Well, at least to me. But maybe because it was Christian who said it. Heh. He wasn't wrong though. Not really. We do have plenty of nipa huts. The town is a fledgling as far as Manila is concerned. But we are more fisher folks than farmers, and most would be delighted with our hinterland ways, for varied and unhurried are the days here, with just enough room for play and rest. 

I grew up much too involved and invested in this town. A good part of my school days were spent representing her in quiz bees and other assorted contests – I was, what you might call, a bibo kid. My stint as a gabbang player assured my front seat in local events and cultural gatherings. At a very young age, I knew what it meant to hail from somewhere and of the pride that comes along with it. 

I've been told I take the basaan  a little too seriously

My story begins – like most things do – with a cataclysm. To say that all this – all that I am – was a result of chaos is the truth. I am an aftermath.

The year was 2014. The day: 13th January. I was unemployed. I was broke. I was broken. From the waiting area of an outsourcing firm, right after an interview for a call center agent position, I got the one call that would forever change my life.

That call carried with it the dread of the Big Bang. Its looming threat relentless, sweeping me to the emergency room of a hospital in Mandaluyong. As the curtains were pulled away, revealing to me what was behind, I remember my breathing coming to a stop. Sucking away all the air from my lungs, using my life-force to feed its blast, I couldn't move. On a gurney, wrapped in white cloth, was my Mama. Gone. Snuffed out. Like a quick but devastating explosion.

That was two – almost three – years ago. Even now, the full range of that detonation is still unknown to me, but its wake seeped into every crack in my being until I was made of nothing but. I am an aftermath.

Yet with the storms of tears and the torrents of doubt, that catastrophe had also brought me a gift: motion. Its momentum, however hurtful, compelled me to move. A hundred steps forward. Twice as many steps back. It didn't matter. After what seemed like a lifetime of inaction, I was finally moving.