THE UNRELENTING rays of the sun penetrate the car’s windows and heat engulfs the small compartment, biting my skin. It is 11:30 a.m. I grumble and shift uncomfortably in my seat, wistfully watching the magnificent bay stretched out below me.
We veer away from the main road and enter a rusty gate that opens to a dirt road just wide enough for us to pass. On both sides, endless rows of trees with trunks that stick out like sore thumbs, enveloping us in all shades of brown.
The car stops in a clearing and I follow the rest towards a quaint cottage. So very Western I think of the architecture of wooden logs that reminds me of a Hollywood movie featuring a Hansel-and-Gretel-like hut located in the middle of a forest, isolating its occupants from the rest of the world.    
This cottage though is set right above a stony cliff. A spacious wooden terrace offers a fantastic view of the sea. The terrace leads to a narrow, cemented staircase that extends down to the water. So here I finally am at South Point Divers. It is located at Tampuan Point, Maasim, Sarangani Province; probably the farthest south one can get over land in the Philippines when in search for dive sites.
In 1969, when Donald Partridge, an American, moved to the Philippines to work for the DOLE Pineapple Plantation in General Santos City, he instantly grew attached to the place as it is bordered by Sarangani Bay. Don stayed and married a Filipina with whom he has three sons.
Paul, the second son, is a dive instructor and the manager of South Point Divers. He recalls that when he was still a child, his family owned a beach in General Santos City which he and his brothers made into their playground. A couple of years later, the family found in Sarangani this piece of land jutting above the sea, turned it into their getaway, and then decided to open it to the public in 2005.
Yet despite the success of their hobby-turned-business, the Partridge family is bent on preventing South Point Divers from becoming too commercialized, preferring to keep it simple; a rustic, back-to-roots kind of dive site. Paul confides he hesitates using the word ‘resort’ because people might think the place is full of half-naked people and plenty of booze. A ‘Bed and Breakfast’ or ‘Mom and Pop Store’ of divers is more what Paul has in mind for the dive site and he does not mind at all the minimal exposure that their handful of promotional brochures has given.
What the Partridge family desires is to have people add to their circle of sea-lovers, no matter how few. The measure of South Point Divers’ success for the Partridges is not based on the number of customers that come every so often. “What we want are friends to come back,” Paul says emphatically.
And come back visitors do indeed. Many return to explore the crevice located right at the corner of the property where the dive spot is. Feet after feet, the crevice of rock formations of every kind stretches from under the water’s surface to the abyss unexplored even by expert divers.
Other visitors like to hang out at the Sandbar, a small shore made of white sand and soft corals that during low tide peeks through the blue sea like the wide tip of an iceberg. From here one can swim to the opposite side where a beach of hard corals lies.
Probably the most favorite attraction at South Point Divers are the turtles and mantas, giant rays whose diamond-shaped bodies measure to 25 feet across their fins or “wings.” Thriving under the sea at varying depths, these sea creatures can be encountered depending on how deep one dives. The manta, for example, is considered a prized sighting as it can only be seen if one gets to dive deep enough.
Yet even when the turtles and mantas go in hiding, divers find themselves swimming with butterfly fishes, clown fishes, giant groupers, humphead wrasses, dolphins, sharks, sea snakes, clams, and crabs. So colorful and bursting with life is this magical underwater world amidst the traffic of fish moving in packs like one brain is directing them to turn right or left, up or down. Here at South Point Divers, all troubles are left floating on the surface as the wonders of the ocean bring true peace of mind.

by Milbie and Maya

BLUE, yellow, pink, and green motorboats rush across the deep, blue sea adding to the vibrant atmosphere on this early morning cruise in the Celebes Sea as I and my companions head toward the island we have heard so much about.

The sun beams over the unruffled sea that mirrors a cloudless sky. We lightly glide over the water going southward, the pleasant breeze cooling our skin. I am with Myra and Beverly, my pals since high school, and friendly Manuel who owns the blue motorboat we are on board of. Behind the wheel is Manong Miko, the navigator and captain of our motorboat.

He tells us that Tuka Marine Park lies 2.5 kilometers southwest of the poblacion of Kiamba, reachable only by a 20-minute boat ride. The early settlers of Kiamba called the park Tuka, for its figure resembles a bird’s beak called “tuka”(accent on the last syllable)  in the local dialect.
Bordered by rocks, Tuka is divided into four curved sections: First Tuka, Second Tuka, Third Tuka, and Fourth Tuka.

As we move farther across the open sea, I turn to face our point of origin and hurriedly take several pictures capturing the scenery where talisay trees shade a picnic-perfect gazebo inside a children’s playground. Behind it stands the charming white town hall where the two men who a while ago were standing and smoking on the stairway are probably still in deep conversation. 

I watch the playground fade slowly in the distance as the lush mountains that shelter the borough we are headed for come into clearer view. It is exhilarating seeing the one hundred year-old trees in the distance depicting a vivid image of untouched nature and stretched before it the entire Celebes Sea. Already I feel like I’m on the set of Survivor. 

Manuel warns us of big waves far ahead as we sail westward to track Tuka. I put my camera back in its plastic case and hand it to him lest I accidentally drop it. Myra, Beverly and I scream and tremble as waves angrily slam against our motorboat. Amused, Manuel tells us to hold on tight. We need no prodding.

Anxiously we clasp each other and the boat, our hair playing with the wind, the seaspray wetting our bodies. Within minutes we spot the rock-strewn coast and in no time we are right in the middle of the First Tuka, approaching the shore.

The Deserted Coast
A welcoming ambiance of serenity and cold air greets us. Only the noise of the boat’s engine disturbs the solemnity of this deserted coast enhanced even more by the whisper of the wind and the sound of waves breaking on the rocky shore.

I spit into my snorkeling mask and spread the saliva to its corners. Now that it’s clean, I jump into the water with Myra and Beverly in tow. We put on our masks and float around in the sparkling blue-green water awed by our first breath-taking sight of corals, crustaceans, and fishes we had until then only admired on the National Geographic Channel.

There are jagged-looking corals that look like miniature tree limbs, some fan-shape, and pink and orange flowers. Several huge brain-like corals hug the seabed, their skin appearing to ripple and sway in the water like wary animals without eyes.

Striped fish, yellow fish, red fish, silver fish appear and disappear, smartly wriggling their bodies and zigzagging in all directions every time I try to touch them but in vain. That is because fish have a special sense organ called the lateral line to coordinate sudden turns and permitting the fish to feel the nearness of a predator and identify food or other fish.

The pebble-covered, sandy beach stretches away in the distance for about 600 meters. Over to one side I see a lush mountain without a single evidence that humans had once trod upon this part of the planet. Willowy palm trees cover the mountain and down to the very edge of the shore.

Fascinated, I tread inland, but seeing nothing of interest, I walk back to my waiting companions, happily aware that in this lifetime I have stepped foot on an island that hasn’t yet been violated by an expanding population. There are no cottages that mar the landscape, no cafes, spa salons, shower rooms. Not even toilets. There are no stores in sight or houses for that matter; no electric poles, no other people – just us. Our loud voices and laughter reach all the way to the mountainside and come echoing back to us.

Life-vests and snorkeling gadgets in hand, we stroll along the length of the pebbly shore to explore the whole coastline. I learn from Manuel that the local government of Kiamba intends to keep Tuka as a marine sanctuary, restricting anything that jeopardizes the bionetwork in this area. This is the reason why no facilities are constructed here and why visitors who come to Tuka to swim or enjoy a round of beach volleyball must bring containers in which to keep their trash for disposal elsewhere.

Tuka has in fact been declared a protected area by the local government. It has a total of 12 hectares core zone that is exclusively for research and study by environmental scientists and marine biologists who come here to collect stones and observe the biodiversity. Even fishers are prohibited from fishing in its waters in order to let fish spawn in peace.

I linger for a moment taking in the exotic surroundings. It is obvious to me now why Tuka, unlike so many other places, has to be kept in its natural charm. Simplicity and serenity are its very essence that detach it from our hustle-bustle world. For indeed Tuka could never have become an underwater haven if it were polished into a sophisticated resort people flock to every weekend. Let cities grow and countrysides develop but leave Tuka be, a precious pearl lying safely in its shell, unaffected by humanity.

by Maya Flaminda Vandenbroeck

WHILE everybody else is probably still in bed, or just waking up, my friends and I are already on the road headed toward Maasim municipality in Sarangani where we intend to meet Pastor Isla who has promised to guide us to Tampat Shrine.
It is a huge pile of rocks left as tribute by people of long ago. But tribute to whom? This is what my friends and I intend to find out.
We arrive at Pastor Isla’s house near the beach in Tinoto at around 6:30 a.m. and after a quick round of introductions, he gets in the car with us. A couple of minutes later he tells Triple, our guide from the governor’s office, to stop the car at a rusty padlocked gate along the General Santos-Sarangani highway.
Pastor Isla points to the other side of the highway where mountains border a ranch as far as the eye can see. Looking closely at the cliffs, we spot the biggest clam in the world, which from our point of view, has become just a speck in the distance but is still clearly visible. Pastor Isla tells us that the clam has been featured several times on national television. He then gets out of the car and calls out loudly to the caretakers of the property on our side of the highway to let us in, because he says in Blaan, “We have come to take a look at Tampat Shrine!”
A boy comes and opens the gate to a vast ranch of thin trees and lots of thorny bushes, but no cattle. The pathway is so uneven that we decide to leave the car some 200 meters away from the gate. In single file, we go down the rocky lane strewn with limestone, and by the time we reach the shore of the Celebes Sea, we are all sweating and thirsty.
We walk along the sandy road with the open sea on our right and on the left, huge slabs of shale lining the shore. Finally, we reach the edge of the shoreline where, behind a cluster of houses, is the strangest pile of rocks I have ever seen. It stands more than three meters high, and we are told, each rock got to this spot through the years as homage to Sultan Falalisan. He was a legendary Blaan who had the ability to navigate the seas on a large kawa or cooking pot. (It is a figurative way of saying that he was such a good navigator that he could sail in any contraption—even a cooking pot.)
From where we are standing beside Tampat Shrine, we see a cove with deep blue waters. Three fishers, each in his own banca or boat, sit motionless waiting for fish to take bait. Triple informs us the area is Sigil Cove, where South Point, a popular diving spot, is located. Tampat Shrine happens to be at the very corner of shoreline where the Celebes Sea meets Saranggani Bay.The Shrine’s location is so ideal that it has become the starting point of the annual swimming competition held during the Sarangani Bay Festival every May. Pointing across the sea, Triple says we are facing the Municipality of Glan, the final destination of the swimming competition, and the southernmost municipality of Sarangani.
Pastor Isla tells us that the piled rocks marking the grave of Sultan Falalisan is called Toke’Alfo, a Blaan phrase meaning, One Coconut Tree. This is strange because I have not seen a single coconut growing along the shore. Pastor Isla explains that according to legend, Al Ma’bat, a Blaan forebear of Sultan Falalisan, planted a coconut tree on the spot where the Shrine now stands.
Just like an improvised light tower, I muse. A coconut or shrine located at the point where the Celebes Sea meets Sarangani Bay could serve as a practical navigational marker! Was the Shrine a navigational marker for seafarers looking for protected deep anchorage for their sea vessels? The South Point area of Sigil Cove looks like an ideal spot.
A salty smell from the rocks permeates Tampat Shrine and I decide to walk around to investigate. Some rocks have pieces of nylon rope or string tied through holes. They are probably anchor weights brought by fishers. Carefully circling the Shrine clockwise, I notice slabs of shale in upright position forming 11 rectangles which are clear of rocks and shrubs. A ramp with a north-to-south orientation leads to the top of the Shrine.
It seems to me that Tampat Shrine is consistent with records of burial practices by seafarers of the Indo-Pacific region. When I studied at University, I remember reading that it was not unusual to build the burial ground of a seafarer with a ramp oriented in a north–south direction leading to the top of the burial ground. In fact, ship captains were buried facing the pole star. Were Sultan Falalisan’s shipmates buried around the Shrine as indicated by these shale-lined rectangles? The women in the hut of the family designated as the Shrine’s caretakers confirm my guess that people have been buried here but they do not know who.
Also interesting are the white banners placed at the top of Tampat Shrine which are clearly mourning flags of Muslim influence. In fact, the family in charge of the Shrine are of Blaan descent but practice Islam. This is quite extraordinary because over the centuries, Lumad tribes have steadfastly stuck to their belief systems despite foreigners settling down and introducing Islam and Christianity. This sense of self-preservation of Mindanao’s Lumads is precisely why the Spanish colonizers failed to convert them.

For a moment I become still, moved by the history of the place. Standing under the tree that is growing beside the Shrine, I face the sea and sense the dead seafarers’ spirits around me. I take some pictures and try to capture the serenity of it all. As we trace our steps back to the car, Pastor Isla begins to tell us the story of Tampat Shrine told to him by his late grandfather:
“A long time ago, a Maguidanaoan merchant, Sultan Falasab, reached the shores of Tinoto. Because his ship needed some repairs, he sent his men to the forest to get rattan vines. On the way to the forest, the men saw a tree house, which was the customary house of Blaans at that time. In the tree house was a small boy and a beautiful girl with very long hair that reached the ground. The men took the girl and brought her to the Sultan.”
“The girl’s name was Foi’Ble and she had four older brothers, Fo’n Bong, Fo’n Tukay, Foi’ Talaot, and Al Ma’bat. The brothers were out hunting in the forest and when they returned to their tree house, they found their sister was gone. Following the footprints leading away from their house, the brothers arrived at the beach where they saw their sister on the Sultan’s ship. Very angry, the brothers shot a volley of arrows towards the ship. When Sultan Falasab saw the brothers, he asked for peace and then asked to marry Foi’Ble because he loved her deeply. The brothers agreed but only after Sultan Falasab paid a dowry equivalent to the number of strands in Foi’Ble’s hair. The Sultan then brought Foi’Ble to Maguindanao where they lived from then on.”
“Sultan Falalisan, who is buried in Tampat Shrine, is the descendant of Foi’Ble and Sultan Falasab. Born out of their union, Sultan Falalisan became a Blaan–Maguindanaon who practiced Islam. He was also a navigator like Sultan Falasab and since Foi’Ble came from Tinoto, Sultan Falalisan had a reason to visit the place time and again. As a navigator, he probably anchored his ship at Sigil Cove, and used the lone coconut tree as his navigational marker. When he died, he was probably buried beneath the coconut tree.”
I can very well imagine that because Sultan Falalisan was highly respected due to his royal lineage and his being an excellent navigator, seafarers visited his grave and lay rocks as tokens of respect. And possibly to also ask for still waters in the coasts they were headed.
Incredibly, the story of Tampat Shrine reveals the intermingling of Blaan and Maguindanaon culture; of the Lumad and Muslim beliefs. The hero, Sultan Falalisan, is the intrepid navigator who charted peace and harmony amid the currents of cultural diversity. Although Tampat Shrine’s significance may have been lost in our history, its presence reminds us that before we even existed, other people existed. Who knows, this area around the Shrine might have been a bustling harbor once upon a time. I imagine the mountains in the distance full of deer and the shore full of high trees where people used to live. I gaze at the rocky hill formations looming over Tampat Shrine and wonder where the weary seafarers went to rest and sleep.
Time changes many things; people come and go, changing the environment with them. Yet some things resist the change of time, like great men who died but whose stories continue to be told.
(Visit www.mayaflaminda.blogspot.com for more snippets of the author’s daily encounters with the corrupt, crazy, profound, interesting, famous at work, at home, in the jeepney, at the beach, on the plane. You get the picture.)