Lilies and angel’s trumpets. One big white grave beside three small ones. A river of pebbles winking through the green. A man sitting on a dirty monobloc chair, sunshine all around, with a cabbage patch beside him.
Pardon the incoherence, but I need to write this all down before I forget. You see, I’m passing through Halsema Highway right now, and in between dreaming, I saw our bus pass through a lake of clouds that blanketed the mountain and covered the rice terraces like a lid. And the pale golden sunshine. You don’t get sunrises like that in Manila. The pearly skies and the sunlight so silky you feel like you could drink it.
It seems impossible that it was only three hours ago that I was standing on the Rev. John Staunton Road waiting for a bus in 14 degrees Celsius and there was a sweet smell that wafted with the bone-searing cold breeze. And I don’t know what it was, but I’ll forever associate it with Sagada nights.
I don’t understand how people can avoid traveling through Halsema. It is just beautiful. The drama of these rice terraces is like a drug.
Alright, quick jotting down of mental note done.
Now let me get back to my view.