Learning to let go

Rasping under the weight of 10 adults, the tricycle revved its way up the narrow and twisting track. The driver struggled to control the rickety vehicle as it veered right.

Fortunate to be seated and not clinging to the outside, I nervously peered down to the black ocean below licking at the shore like a hungry predator.

We were in the Philippines, heading from Sugod to a neighbouring village for a pre-fiesta party.

The steep journey up the mountain in daylight was addictive. On a motorbike, with a fresh breeze relieving you from sticky afternoon heat, the dryness of the day and the parched forest seemed quenched by the rippling waves of cool turquoise sea. Passing bamboo homes, families and friends lounging outside would beam you a smile.

But at night, without the reassuring gaze of the sun, such tight corners and rubble-strewn paths, the journey loomed less friendly.

Fifteen jittery minutes later, we reached the party. Held in a basketball court -- often the hub of a village -- people were gathering. Teenagers were giggling and flirting, girls sparkling in colourful frocks and guys sporting rapper-inspired baggy jeans and basketball shirts.

We sat at a table close to huge speakers already reverberating K-pop through the trees and Tanduay rum shots were quickly passed around the group, chased with water.

"Balut! Balut!" a new friend yelled excitedly as a seller approached. "You have to try it!"

Hesitantly, I cracked open the egg shell, catching a glimpse of the semi-formed chick with its wings and feathers protruding. I closed my eyes, tipped my head back and bit off a chunk. Surprisingly, it was a tasty fusion of chicken breast and hard boiled egg.

Before long, a steady stream of men came to whisk ladies out of their seats and onto the dance floor. Hips shaking in a whirl of latin-inspired moves, faces beaming, the party swung around the court to the beat of the strobe lights.

I learnt to let go of my English reserve as a kind man effortlessly salsa-ed me into the spirit of it all. Twirling me amid the mass of sweaty dancers, he grinned at the transformation.

Off court, another party played out. With unemployment as high as 85 percent in some of these villages, many couldn't afford the small entrance fee. But the heavy baseline and carefree vibe were free, so with street stalls offering liquor, snacks and games, the revelry spread easily.

With daily life raw and unforgiving for many there, the fiesta is not just a party. The frenzied build up offers a welcome distraction from routine trials, until the annual finale: an explosion of the Filipino sense of fun, food and family.

As the night drew to a close, I remembered there was still a journey back -- but this time down hill, with a tipsy driver. Checking myself and my neurotic Western ways I took a tip from the brave and endlessly cheerful locals: 'Bahala-na,' what will be will be.