By Audie Vinci Batausa

Bohol is a hodgepodge of everything the Philippines has to offer, from pristine white sand beaches to exceptional landscapes, making it one of the top destinations of choice among tourists. It is the home of world-renowned tourist attractions like the centuries-old Baclayon Church, the crystal-clear waters of Panglao, the geological wonder of the Chocolate Hills in Carmen, and the very peculiar Tarsier that is endemic to the Philippines. Unfortunately, these attractions have cast shadows over neighboring towns, depriving the latter of noteworthy attention.

Tourists tend to give these non-traditional destinations a passing glance as they focus and lean towards the more popular ones. Sadly, the more popular destinations have become too overrated and too commercialized, making the whole experience a meaningless recreation. They seem to get lost in the idea that traveling is all about scratching out trendy tourist destinations from their itineraries and taking a whole lot of selfies while at it. They miss out on the opportunity to fully experience the place in its raw and truest nature.

Unluckily, the coastal town of Loay was not spared from this grim reality.

One would always pass through Loay while going towards the interior town of Loboc and Carmen. Situated at the mouth of Loboc River, it is approximately 18 kilometers from Tagbilaran City. A brief 30-minute bus ride is enough to take you there from the capital.

A Glimpse of the Past

I got off the bus when I saw the sign leading towards the Clarin Ancestral House. This imposing two-story edifice has clearly withstood time’s cruel hand. From the outside, the house’s slightly dilapidated wooden frame is adorned with lace-style fretwork that somehow reminded me of my grandmother’s church veil. Its heavily slanted roof is made out of thick layers of nipa leaves instead of the usual adjoined adobe tiles that I have seen on other ancestral houses I have visited.

The house stood witness to the era of one of the prominent political families in Bohol as it served as the residence of Don Aniceto Velez Clarin, a former governor of Bohol, and his two sons, who later on became senators in the 1930s. Many of their descendants followed their predecessor’s footsteps and became mayors and congressmen in the province.

After paying the entrance fee at the café below, the caretaker led me towards a rickety wooden staircase. I was the only visitor that time, and I think that is the reason why the caretaker decided to leave me on my own. Atop the staircase was a very ordinary looking wooden door, devoid of any adornment, with only the oddly placed poster of a religious image disrupting the monotonous dark brown canvass.

The door was a lot heavier than I expected. Stepping inside felt rather unusual. It seemed to me like I was entering into a new world – no, an old world rather. Yet, the house felt warm and alive, like it was still being inhabited – like it was breathing.

I made my way into the sala mayor. The main living room is still complete, with all the furniture and fixtures in their proper places. An antique upright piano was on my right near the window. The chairs surrounding a marble-top table seem to resemble the ones priests use in church. Hanging on the wall was a stunning replica of the Spoliarium. The faint light coming from the massive capiz windows, although feeble and uneven, illuminated the entire place.
All rooms were joined together by wide wooden doors. With all the doors open, the house now seems to be one big hall.

A walk inside the house offered me a glimpse of what it is like to be one of the Boholano alta sociedad. It was like the house was telling me a story from a first-hand experience, being the only surviving witness of everything that happened within its four corners. The mementos inside reverberated the complex history and the remarkably rich culture of its previous inhabitants. Like a movie in my mind, I can only imagine the lavish soirees they hosted in the receiving hall, the important decisions being made at the governor’s study, and the heartfelt prayers being uttered in the oratorio. It afforded me a brief 20 minutes in the life of the late governor.

A Slice of Serenity

A stone’s throw away from the ancestral house was the jump off point to Himontagon Hills. One can opt to hike the mountain trail or charter a habal-habal (motorcycle taxi) to take you all the way up to the peak. Since it was already getting late, I decided to go with the latter.

The ride going up was a bit rough. The rocky roads leading to the summit were steep and uneven. After about 10 minutes, the motorcycle I was on started to make strange funny noises. Was it because of the terrain? Or was it because of my weight? As we followed the uphill path, all I could do was keep a firm hold on the tiny passenger grab rail, fearing that we would soon jump off the cliff or the vehicle would suddenly shatter into pieces.

Along the way, we passed along several white crucifixes. The driver explained that the road towards the peak served as the processional route for the Via Crucis during the Lenten season, to remind them of the path Jesus took towards his crucifixion on Mount Calvary.

The sudden change of scenery erased the worries I had earlier, as the spectacular view of Loay’s rolling hills greeted me without warning. The warm glow of the sun painted the panorama with a touch of wonder. I quickly scanned the area and looked at the skies – it was picture perfect. The soft and opaque clouds hung in the sky, almost motionless. There was something strange and unreal about it.

Upon reaching the summit, I nestled myself under the shade of a lanky looking tree with my back against its side. Before me was an unimpeded view of paradise. The sun has already started its descent, setting the skies ablaze while the sea gave off a proud sparkle. The previously green hills started to change their hue to varied shades of gold. I can see how its low grassy mounds sloped down to the Mindanao Sea, and on its harbor sits the quiet town of Loay. The soft and gentle whistle of the mountain breeze can be heard, as it playfully swirled around the tall grass. Honestly, the view kind of reminded me of a default desktop wallpaper.

I caught myself smiling and almost teary eyed while staring at the sun lingering on the horizon. Every once in a while, I would stretch

out my arms and close my eyes, as I freely take pleasure in the warm embraces of the vibrant sun. The sweeping view of the Himontagon Hills had served me a slice of serenity, a kind of luxury that is extremely hard to come by. For the first time in six months, the familiar feeling of being in love came rushing back, but this time was different. I was in love, not with a specific person, but with the world.

I was in that state when I heard someone at the back. It was the driver telling me that it’s time to go because it was already getting dark. And just like a half-asleep child clinging to the bed after a restful sleep, I pleaded, “Just five more minutes.”