It’s all a matter of preference, I suppose: if your idea of a paradise is a long stretch of magnificent white sand, some of the country’s most excellent resorts to cater to your every need, world-class restaurants, and a teeming night life—then, of course, there’s Boracay. But if your taste tends towards the more adventurous, the unknown, the unexplored and untouched, if you are looking for unmanufactured experience—then I’ve got a secret for you.
I admit that I could not also resist the lure of the former: I had lugged my bags over to Bora for the day, visiting my favorite restaurants, sitting down on the white sand to marvel at the beach vista. Unfortunately, Bora is crowded at this time of the year, and the reverie ended when a small group of guys claimed the beach chairs next to me and proceeded to have a long, dopey debate about the relative merits of Manila’s malls.
And this is how I found myself that evening on a two-hour boat ride to Romblon. Pump boats and ferries leave the Caticlan jetty for Tablas Island in the morning and in the evening (although a SEAir flight also goes from Manila to Tablas thrice weekly), and I caught the ferry’s 8pm trip. The ferry’s shuddering motor shook in one direction, while the choppy waves pulled another. There was a storm coming, and the channel we were crossing is reputed to be among the roughest in Philippine waters.
Why go? Earlier, I’d spoken to photographers Justin Ventura and Oyen Bautista, and despite having perhaps dozens of destinations between us, none of us had ever ventured to Romblon, and we all confessed—amazed, more than embarrassed—that none of us had heard much about the place. And therein lay the appeal.
Romblon is a one-district province, part of the MIMAROPA region in the Sibuyan Sea. Romblon province is made up of three islands: Sibuyan Island; Tablas, the largest island; and Romblon Island, where the capital is located. I have vague memories of Romblon’s prominence in the region in the 70s, and another friend remembers the luxury cruises one could take from Manila to Romblon in her childhood. These days are long past, and nowadays even the assistant from whom I bought my ferry tickets expressed her surprise that so many people were going to Romblon.
Two queasy hours later, and I threw my bags down on the pier in Looc town, found in Tablas, the largest of the three Romblon islands. Jojo Madrona, aide to Romblon’s lone Congressman Eleandro Jesus Madrona, promptly found me and introduced himself; minutes later, I was breathing easier on the back of a pickup, rushing through the dark country roads on the way to the Congressman’s guest house in Bachawan, a few towns away.
Trips like this are a revelation and a reminder. Not all of the Philippines is Makati, all lights and highrises; not all of the Philippines is Boracay, tourist-rich provinces with a wealth of resort developments. A lot of the country is still like this: miles and miles of dark country roads where you could drive for miles at a time without seeing other cars nor houses with lights on at ten in the evening.
There is another ferry to take me to Romblon Island at 5am, after having spent the night at the Congressman’s staff house in Bachawan town. The M/V Querubin is a RO-RO that takes passengers regularly from Tablas to Romblon, and this trip is particularly full, as it is the Friday on the bisperas, the eve of the town’s famous Biniray Festival. A close cousin to the Ati-atihan of Aklan and the Sinulog Festival of Cebu, the Biniray is a festival celebrating the Child Jesus and what the town believes to be their blessed and miraculous connection with the Sto. Niño. The bisperas of the festival is marked by the Tonton, a Mass and a ceremony to take down the image of the Sto. Niño from the church altar, which will then be presented to the town.
Everywhere Filipinos are known for the fervor of their religious devotion, and festivals like the Biniray are a curious mix of pagan folk practice and Christian belief. The Sinulog has become so popular that it has transcended its religious origins—it is now a full-fledged arts and culture festival, with concerts and trade fairs part and parcel of the event. The Ati-atihan is going the way of the Sinulog—both now have their own websites, even—and the Biniray piqued my interest as possibly one of the last grand Sto. Niño festivals that remains true to its roots.
In the meantime, Romblon Island loomed quietly in the distance, a serene swath of green through the morning mist. The island is rich in marble—nearly the entire island is rock, it is whispered—and it does sit in the sea like a small, steadfast rock. Romblon Island is actually the smallest of the three islands of the province, home to only one municipality. Located strategically in between Luzon and the Visayas, and equipped with one of the safest natural harbors in the area, Romblon has always been an important way station for ships.
The port of Romblon greeted us as it has many sailors for centuries, safe and welcoming and calm. The town is already bustling and awake at this early hour, but there are few indications that the town is about to celebrate its biggest festival. No triangle-shaped banners, no gaudy streamers—just a sign to announce the festival’s prizes (P50,000 goes to best “tribe” participating in the parade), and some masons laying in some clay tiles in the market facing the port.
The Tonton is not to start until the afternoon, so instead we hit the ground running, driving outside town proper to get the lay of the land. With a land area of only 11,157 hectares, it doesn’t take much to cover the island from tip to tip.
Our first stop is Diwata Resort, in Barangay Lonos, just thirty minutes out of the poblacion. It is supposed to be one of the premiere resorts on Romblon, and one of the newest, a favorite among tourists and locals alike. Thirty pesos grants the public entrance to the resort, which features three swimming pools, and huts on the beach, built on stilts above the water.
It’s a pleasant retreat, made more impressive by the fact that this was not designed to be a resort—it was meant to be a family beach house. “We had no idea how big this was going to be!” laughs Dr. Fuente, who had, with his family, moved to the US in 1974. “We just kept sending money to the architect, and when we came home one year, we were just surprised!”
The Fuentes’ story is common in Romblon. Go to the resorts in town, and you will find that most of them are built with immigrants’ money, sent back home to build a retreat for their owners, a place to retire. Romblon casts a strong spell over its native sons and daughters, and many of them seem to want nothing more than to return there in their sunset years.
Diwata Resort, named after the youngest of the three Fuente daughters, was fully booked for the Biniray, Dr. Fuente apologized, but would we perhaps like to stay in his other beach house, next to Talipasak Resort?
Another forty minutes away, the Fuentes’ private beach house is a lovely two-room affair on a cliff, a short walk up from one of the island’s best coves. It is the very essence of a secret tropical island beach cove—dramatic boulders on a lonely shore, waves quietly rolling in. It’s amazing to think that this is the view someone would wake to every single day.
“My son-in-law, when we brought him over here the first time, told me, ‘Dad, this is paradise! This is paradise!”
Everywhere we go, it is apparent that Romblon is not by any means a rich province. Most of the island had gotten electricity only in the past few years, and the marble industry, for a while a significant source of the province’s income, had taken a nosedive since cheaper sources from China flooded the market. Agriculture, fishing, and some mining are now at the heart of the province’s economy, but the nascent tourism industry might be Romblon’s best hope.
But let’s face it: Romblon is a long way away from becoming the next Boracay, the next Cebu. Roads have to be built, ferry systems regularized, power and water have to reach more corners of the islands. In the meantime, most of the people in Romblon scrape by on subsistence farming and fishing.
Which makes the story of Agpanibat even more extraordinary. At the northern end of Romblon, Agpanibat is a small barangay on whose beachhead sea turtles have decided to nest. Since 2003, when the area was discovered, the townsfolk have learned to watch for the eggs around nesting time, and when the time comes for the eggs to hatch, the good people of Agpanibat help the baby turtles to sea.
They’re well aware of the 95% mortality rate of these baby turtles, and to help them out a little, some families care for a baby turtle or two—feeding them, cleaning them daily, making sure they grow to a respectable size before they are released to the wild in nine or ten months, before the next cache of turtle eggs are laid on their beaches.
This is not done out of whim nor out of any need to impress non-existent visitors. In homes where there is sometimes not enough for the family members to eat, the turtles often come first. “Minsan, pag walang pagkain, sila lang ang may pagkain. Kapag sardinas ang ulam ng mga tao, sariwang isda ang kinakain ng pawikan (Sometimes, when there is no food, only they will have food. If canned sardines are what the people have to eat, the sea turtles will have fresh fish),” says Job Martinez, Agpanibat’s barangay chairman and the vice-president of the local Municipal Fisheries and Aquatic Resource Management Council. He has come bearing a bucket with half a dozen or so baby turtles, each about a month old, borrowed from some of Agpanibat’s houses.
The turtles, he explains gently, become a beloved part of the family for the time they are there. “Iniiyakan sila pag pinapakawalan na (Tears are shed when they’re released into the wild).”
The eve of the Biniray is a holiday in Romblon, but every public school we pass is open and busy, with a yard full of schoolchildren. They’re preparing for the Biniray, explains Toto Ang, Congressman Madrona’s aide de camp in Romblon Island. Schools and barangays form the different brigades that will send groups over to the poblacion for the Biniray, dancing and drumming to honor the Sto. Niño. Nearly every other barangay in Romblon will be on the Biniray, with everyone making the trip to the town proper to take part in the festivities.
Already, at the Tonton, the Cathedral of St. Joseph is full to the rafters with devotees of the Sto. Niño. The crowds spill outside, into the town square, as loudspeakers broadcast the Mass. Inside the cathedral, the mood is quiet but excited, solemn but celebratory.
Outside the 17th century church, the air is a bit rowdier. As in any provincial fiesta, there are vendors hawking all sorts of wares—cotton candy, balloon animals, toys, food, trinkets of all sorts—and entire families and barkadas enjoying the sights together. There is a thrumming in the air—literally, too, as several drum brigades are already assembled, and some of their members are rehearsing softly.
The devotion and investment of the Romblomanons in the Biniray festival can be seen in the way unofficial (i.e., those not in the running for the competition prize) groups assemble even before the next day’s festival, waiting only to give the Sto. Niño the welcome it deserves as it is paraded around the town plaza.
When the Mass is over, the shouts ring out from inside the church: “Viva Señor Santo Niño!” And then again from the plaza: “Viva! Viva! Viva!”
There is such a great and overwhelming sincerity in the Romblomanons’ celebration of the Biniray. This is not being done for the benefit of tourists or the media—there are very few representatives of those in town. No, the Biniray is still Romblon’s own, and they celebrate the festival because it is tied in so tightly still with their own history, their culture, their very blood.
And the rhythms that the tribes march to is very powerful. Literally, as the drums they use are big and are pounded with such great force that there is hardly a corner of town where they cannot be heard. The drums start right as the Sto. Niño is handed down from the altar, as the bands begin their jubilant march around the town square.
This year, it is Congressman Madrona who has the honor of holding up the Sto. Niño for everyone to see, before marching out to the plaza to parade it once around the center of town. There is a mad flurry as devotees flock to the small statue of the Child Jesus, hoping to touch the statue dressed in the royal finery traditional to Spanish-Filipino images. Congressman Madrona nearly topples over from the weight of the devotees pressing around him, trying to get one touch of the miraculous statue. One round around the plaza, with everyone cheering “Viva! Viva! Viva!” Everyone seems so guilelessly happy, like children.
There is talk of putting up an international airport in Carabao Island, one of the islets south of Romblon and part of the town of San Jose. If and when that happens, as it might later this year, tourists will not only have better access to Boracay, but they will also discover the secret that is Romblon. Already there is talk that Carabao Island, twice as large as Boracay and with white sand beaches and clear blue waters as stunning as that of its neighbor. “The next Boracay,” people are calling it.
This is something on my mind as we trek to the top of Mount Agbaliga, from which we could view the town and the harbor. Romblon is so quiet and so sleepy, even as the last straggling drummers of the Biniray beat on the day after the festival.
Romblon is not so far from Manila, really. A ferry can take you here from Batangas overnight, from Caticlan in a couple of hours. The plane lands in Tugdan, in Tablas Island in barely an hour after it departs from the Domestic Airport. And yet, for now it still seems so remote, so untouched and unspoiled.
There is an open-heartedness among the Romblomanons that will help them welcome development, and tourists, I am sure. The international airport, if plans are on track, will fling open the doors to the rest of the world soon enough, and Romblon may soon find itself playing host to as many visitors as they can handle. In my mind, I can see five-star resorts springing up, cemented roads flowing through the arteries of the island, tourists coming in droves. It may never happen, or it may happen very soon, and faster than anyone could guess. But for now, Romblon is a well-kept beauty of a secret.
Edited version previously published as the cover story in SEAir's InFlight magazine, February 2008
