A frequent question was whether I was an American journalist or a missionary,
which most likely indicated they were the only foreigners visiting Mindanao. Seeing
my answer to both was negative left them puzzled. It was usually followed by a
polite: “What’s your purpose in the Philippines?”. Answering, “Only travelling,” left
them looking somewhat perplexed, and replying, “Oh, only travelling,” rubbing
their chins, as if such a thing wasn’t possible.
Not as many pictures as usual were taken, for as soon as the camera came out,
whispers of “journalist, journalist” could be heard. This was one part of the world
where you didn’t want to be mistaken for a journalist. The reason is, through the
years the island Muslims (Moros) have launched repeated attempts to establish
autonomy on the island. Since the Maguindanao massacre in 2009, when fifty-
seven civilians were killed, including four journalists, Mindanao ranked only second
to Iraq for being the deadliest country for journalists. I considered it best to keep
the camera well hidden.
Buug – Pagadian – 63 km
It turned out a rainy but picturesque ride as I headed towards the mountains,
mainly past rice fields and farmers ploughing using water buffalo. My route led
across rivers and past waterfalls. Spotting me, small kids ran as fast as their little
legs could carry them, and people in nipa huts looked up in surprise. So
astonished was a man relaxing under a tree, guarding his stall and selling petrol in
Coca-Cola bottles, he spun around at such speed he fell right out of his hammock.
The hills felt long and steep. Sometimes my legs didn’t want to cooperate, and I
was happy with the descent into busy Pagadian (still laughing about the man
falling out of the hammock!). Roads were jam-packed with tricycles and Jeepneys,
and it took weaving through them like a snake. After a quick shower, I was off
looking for a supermarket. Once at my abode, I learned I made it out of
Zamboanga City by the skin of my teeth. The Moros killed four people and held
hostages. Phew!