When we reached the summit, we were greeted by two NPAs in full battle gear – grenades, M-16s with bandoliers of ammos. While they were warm and happy to meet me, they came across not really as a welcoming committee. They must have been sentries out to warn their comrades if hostile forces would venture out there.
After a brief rest, Rex and I proceeded to our destination. My excitement, thinking that we should be close, invigorated me. There were the sentries already and I was trying to convince myself that we were really close. I have ceased asking Rex their kind of “are we there yet” version because his concept of what is near or far is so out of my planet.
And my kind of close, really, is a misnomer in its relative sense. It took us another hour and a half to traverse a mountainside similar to, if not worse than, the terrain we had the night before. It must be because of the daylight that I could see clearly that the steep down trails were more rugged with rocks, roots and stumps. The foliage is thicker and the shades actually made the air cooler although the noon sun was already blisteringly hot. Nonetheless, I had to stop several times to wait for cramps to subside. Not even during my basketball and soccer college days did I have those kinds of cramps. It must have been a cumulative bombardment, since the preceding day, on my hamstrings, inner thighs and calves. My left knee was also aching more than my right. My right big toe was also hurting from pushing on that corner of my shoe (later, I would find my toe nail blackened with dried blood underneath it).
At this point, I kept questioning myself why I put myself in this situation. Surely, there are easier ways to get a story. Or there are other stories to write. And maybe, I am not really a dedicated journalist. Otherwise, I should have been a full-time one, not a once-in-a-while freelancer that I am. At that point though, what can I do? I have entered a point of no return. The only way out was to go through it.
I also asked myself how the NPA rebels could be enduring these. I convinced myself that they must be masochists to embrace this kind of hardship among others. They must be really convinced about what they are fighting for. I mean, walking alone is suffering enough, I should think…and they are willing to die for their cause?
I reminded myself, however, that these people have grown in these villages. They are accustomed to these hardships. This is nothing to them. Rex seems to know each promontory, each blade of grass, when a shadow will cast upon a rock.
It must be me. I am over fifty. What am I doing here?
I was in this kind of self pity and I was about to just give up and roll down the abyss, when, again, I heard the ripples of water. Again, I felt energy surging through my feet. We should really be close. The ripples became louder as the terrain became more rocky and wet.
Then Rex waved at someone or something that I could not see. Further down, something blue became clearer from behind bushes. It was a canvass, which, with plastic sheets, covered a wooden frame structure. Inside, there were two pairs of makeshift double-deck beds. Propped on the walls were an M-79, several M-16s and vests of ammunitions.
Rex offered me water from a plastic container. It was so cold. “Fresh from the river,” he said. “We’ll just rest here until we are cleared.”
He gave me the impression that the structure was where sentries rest.
Soon, two NPA rebels came to fetch us. After 100 meters or so, I saw more structures along the river. As they were scattered along the banks, I was not able to count how many there were.
The two escorted me to what they called an office. It looked more like a conference convertible to a lunch hall to me. It was the biggest structure covered with a green canvass for a roof. Strewn on two conference tables made of lashed bamboos were M-16s and ammunitions. There was also a Browning Automatic Rifle and an M-79 launcher. At the middle of one of the tables were around 20 plates with equal heaps of rice and some kind of vegetable. At one end of the table, five NPAs were watching the DVD movie of The Patriot.
“You have a TV here?” I commented.
A Ka Amor would later explain that “with the creativity and ingenuity of the people,” they were able to harness energy from the river so they could have electricity. He would later bring me to a smaller office where they have laptops and outlets to charge their cell phones. “And we are connected to the Internet.”
“Really?” I cannot help but gasp my being impressed with their being high-tech in this secluded place.
“But before anything else, let us have lunch first,” said a Ka Nenita, one of the female NPA rebels I have seen in the camp. NPA rebels came into the hall and each grabbed a plate from the center of the table. Most, I guessed, were in their early and middle twenties. Their faces were so ordinary, like any peasant one would meet in a village or a young college student in the city.
