Scoop. Splash. The oar scribbles wisps and curls across the black
water; shards of vibrant blue light spark underneath each stroke:
bioluminescent planktons. On either side of the careening Iwahig River harrow spiky
shadows of mangroves. They flitter and rustle against a breeze that carries the
breath of moist earth. As I gaze up at the star-dusted sky, my rattan cone hat,
with all my exhaustion, slides off my head.
The boatman puckers
his dry lips and jerks his bristly chin towards a distant tree, its outline
bizarrely traceable from the dark thicket. We draw nearer to discover pulsating
yellowgreen light beads sprinkled on every leaf of the tree. The glowing specks
replicate mutely-bright Christmas lights, each one flashing its own rhythm in
this orchestra of lights. I probe the root-braided banks for wires feigning
this sorcery—nothing. “Alitaptap”, he says. Fireflies—thousands of them!
Slyly, I strain to
pull on a branch. A few streaks of light gently catapult into the air, like a
mild explosion. In the moment, I am a child again, reveling at my first sight
of fireworks. The ghostly gems bubble to every direction and a daring firefly
wanders above our hills of hats. It loops and swerves to dodge the treacherous
geysers of playful grappling fingers, including mine. It escapes triumphantly
farther down the river, where more radiating firefly-ladened trees emerge from
the darkness.
I find myself two
hours later in the busy Puerto Princesa Capitol, where the Filipino Christmas
spirit whirls all about; hordes of tourists savoring warm ginger tea and sugary
puto bumbong; children shaking bottle cap tambourines and drumming empty
biscuit cans in tune with their carols. At the center of the festivities is a
towering mesh Christmas tree, adorned with cutout flowers and countless strands
of twinkling light bulbs, begging my attention. I inch closer and mindlessly
swing a string of flickering lights hanging by the hem. Not one bulb flies
away. It will never be the same.
