When I first heard the poetic name of Tawi-Tawi, it romanced my mind as much as Bora Bora, Bali Hai and Timbuktu did. It sounded like wafted waves and was as “delicious” as durian, as savory as mangosteen.
I wanted to visit Tawi-Tawi as soon as possible. After all, I’ve been all over the States, Canada and Mexico, and visited Europe thrice. (I also long to go to Kashmir, because my late father wanted to visit that part of India.)
When I heard Tawi-Tawi being mentioned in local movies by the likes of Fernando Poe Sr. and Rosa del Rosario, I longed to go even more.
When exotic Tawi-Tawi is mentioned, I think of tropical trees, beautiful natives, big surf and black pearls. It is blessed with Mother Nature’s bounty. But, it took me decades to accomplish my dream of visiting the place.
When 2012 arrived, I began planning for the trip. I found an inexpensive ticket (so I thought) online and flew to Zamboanga City, where old friend, Tinggot San Agustin, and his wife, Heidi, welcomed me.
I prepared myself for inconveniences, like the heat. Tinggot warned me about malaria. Thus, I bought Off lotion—better safe than sorry.
Prayers
I expected to see colorful vintas. Instead, when I finally arrived in Tawi-Tawi, there were powerful pumpboats that plied their speedy way between the ships and Sitangkai. The Department of Tourism should arrange those “sights and sounds.” There should be young maidens playing the kulintang near the sea and dancing on the rocks.
I walked around the island and heard radios tuned in to western music. Why don’t their stations play regional music, instead, so that as you go around the “Little Venice of Tawi-Tawi,” you’ll feel “regional,” instead of being alienated?
As soon as they announce an aircraft’s arrival at regional capitals, airlines should play the place’s local music, so tourists can “situate” themselves properly. Why announce a plane’s landing in Zamboanga as music from Chicago plays in the background? —Why, indeed?