Words and Roads

Soft, brown and mixed with grass, the horse dung drew a trail I could follow with my nose. Pine trees lined the empty road, their scent fighting the stench that was making me retch.

I hiked up the mountain, sweating and grimacing, and thought of the brown-eyed woman at the tourism office.

“Mines View Park offers a breathtaking view of mines and the Cordillera mountain range,” she had told me. Then she gave me a map, and 30 minutes later I was wandering on the edge of Baguio. Due to lack of signposts and fellow humans, I took the road less fragrant thinking that where there was horse dung, there was a horse, and where there was a horse, there was a park. I wasn't at the park yet, but I was quickly running out of breath.

Hooves clattered on concrete, and a young woman on a white horse passed by from behind. The horse’s mane was cotton candy pink. It waved as the horse walked, the yellow flower on its bridle bobbing with its head. A middle-aged man with sunburned skin held the horse’s reins. When they reached a fork in the road, he pulled the animal to the right. The horse paused and – splat – I realized what I was gaping at: sources of information and a means of transportation.

“Wait!” I tried to say, but the people were already far away, and my mouth was too dry. I sighed and looked to my right.

The mouth of a yawning gorge greeted me. Tall pine trees studded the slopes like pointy teeth, and a cloud hung low like a milky white tongue. The face of a nearby mountain gazed at me, and beyond that lay more mountains as far as my eyes could see. Dappled with sunlight and forest green, they nestled against each other like slumbering dragons with ridged backs. A pine-scented breeze kissed my face and cooled my skin, and I gladly breathed it in.

Later on, I held the rough rail of the park’s wooden viewing deck, staring at mountains that seemed dry and brown. As tourists talked around me and vendors’ shouts pierced my ears, I yearned for quiet green mountains and serenity.