TRAVEL IN THE TWILIGHT YEARS (Part 1)

 

 

 

I’ve just squeezed in a backpackers’ bus bound for the  Alps, crammed with teens, twenty and thirty-somethings of all colors when a nonagerian hopped onboard,

 

We all gawked. He’s 92 to be exact, the oldest globe-trotter I’ve ever met.

 

His fellow Australian “gray warriors” – retirees belatedly bitten by the travel bug, are retrofitting a senior-friendly trailer for a two-year European tour, he confided. But he went ahead solo because he can’t wait.

 

 

 

Afterwards, catching my train to Nice, France, a 75-year old Italian hiker helped heft my luggage up the overhead compartment.

 

Ramrod straight under the weight of his pack, compass and maps dangling from his neck in a ziplock pouch, he told me he’s taking a break from his 2,000 kilometer trek to Santiago De Compostela, Spain – one of the most famous pilgrimage routes since Medieval times – the St. James’ Way.

 

“It’s my third time to do it. I’ve done the Via Francigena (Canterbury to Rome) then the Cammino di Assisi.”  He showed me his dog-eared Pilgrim’s Passport stamped at each stop. “Before I’m eighty, I’ll do the Holy Land.”

 

Well, in almost two decades of wandering through 77 countries, I’ve stopped counting the gray warriors I’ve met.

 

 

Age posed no barrier for these dauntless members of the G.I. Generation, the Silents and the Boomers. After all, the oldest man to summit Mt. Everest was 80; the oldest woman, 73. Both were Japanese.

 

I wasn’t really surprised when Japanese septuagenarians overtook me in my first, solo, night ascent of their highest and holiest mountain, 12,400-foot Fuji-san.

 

Active seniors of all nationalities even wrangle big cats and tuskers as volunteer travelers although some wildlife facilities impose age limits.

 

Thailand’s Tiger Temple specifies volunteers should be between18 to 50. However, the Elephant Nature Park in Chiangmai requires no age limit. I’ve worked there as a volunteer, walking, bathing, feeding and caring for rescued tuskers alongside people of every age, from kids to one American lawyer on sabbatical, a German ex-physical therapist and a British ex-nurse, all in their sixties.

 

In Bolivia, Comunidad Inti Warayassi’s wildlife sanctuary accepts animal lovers well into their eighties – for as long as they can work with adult jaguars, pumas, ocelots and other exotics.

 

But everybody signs waivers – no shirking that requirement.

 

CHILLING OUT IN THE ISLANDS

 

Should seniors want to chill out in the Philippines, our 7,100 islands have lots to offer.

 

But I’ve always thought travelers sixty and above will enjoy more quiet enriching respites in the likes of El Nido, Siargao and Batanes.

 

 

El Nido’s 45-islet cluster studs Palawan’s Bacuit Bay like a tiara atop molten emeralds. The place took its name from the edible nest swiftlet inhabiting the crags of its 300 million year old limestone.

 

 

Natives harvest the nests, made of swiftlet saliva and moss. Once they’ve been cleaned, restaurants cook and serve them as the famous Nido soup.

 

 

El Nido is home to Cathedral Cave – a nature-hewn temple of limestone, with stalactites and stalagmites for spires, and 22,000 year old Cadugnon Cave, where pre-historic men dwelt.

 

 

Tourists flock to Miniloc Island for its Big and Small Lagoons. Lagen, Entallula, Pangulasian and the rest of the cluster, feature karst formations, verdant slopes, mountain trails, mangrove forests and coral-fringed shores.

 

 

I’ve done drift dives here, cavorting with moray eels, eagle rays, schooling jacks and reef sharks.

 

Over a hundred species of birds and 20 species of mammals live in El Nido’s forests. Its waters host 200 species of fish, more than 100 species of corals and three species of endangered sea turtles.

 

 

On the other hand, the reefs that corral the coasts of Siargao, a teardrop-shaped island facing the Pacific Ocean, pick up the best surfing waves in the world – fifteen to thirty foot monsters that roll in perfect barrels every monsoon.

 

 

Surigao del Norte, the mother island, takes its name from the Spanish “surgir” – swirling eddies and turbulent currents. Siargao itself teeters on the edge of the Philippine Deep, an almost 35,000-foot abyss where you can drop Mount Everest with plenty of room to spare.

 

 

Siargao resembles the Rock Islands of Palau, Micronesia’s diving paradise, except that it’s less crowded, closer and cheaper.

 

 

Here, they also have Guyam, a local version of Robinson Crusoe’s island. Daku resembles an untouched Boracay.

 

 

Bucas Grande, two hours boat ride away, hides a realm of caves, half a dozen inland lakes abloom with millions of stingless spotted jellyfish and ironwood jungles where eagles, hawks, hornbills, giant fruit-eating bats, tarsiers and rare fauna forage and frolic.

 

 

It’s a fisherman’s paradise too. Should you get tired of picnics, cruising, snorkeling, diving and trekking, you can try your luck with hook and line in waters teeming with jacks, yellow fin tuna, marlin, barracuda, sailfish and swordfish.

 

Want to experience the Scottish highlands in the tropics? Batanes is the perfect bet.

 

 

Two great oceans – the Pacific and the South China Sea – clash in this bunch of windswept islands fringed with black volcanic beaches and white coral sands. The stone houses of locals (Ivatans) huddle in the coasts and inner valleys – clusters of gray, typhoon-proof, cogon-maned mini-fortresses.

 

 

Fittingly, Ivatans look as indestructible and timeless as their houses. Centenarians still farm taro and yam. They’re also so honest an unmanned Honesty Coffee Shop managed to flourish there for decades.

 

 

Ivatans leave their houses unlocked. Visitors can camp outdoors or sleep in the beaches with no fear of being robbed. Crime rate in the island is zero.

 

 

But to travel between the islands, you dance with the waves in “falowas” –  flimsy wooden boats with no outriggers. For the young and old, it’s an adventure in itself.

 

 

 

Over communal pastures, you can still see mountaintop stone citadels (“idjang”) where Ivatans kept watch over marauding tribes and pirates thousands of years before the Spanish conquistadores.

 

 

Close to the citadels lay the “tampan” – boat-shaped burial mounds similar to those of Europe’s Vikings, with stone grave markers laid out in a pattern resembling the Ivatans’ modern boats.

 

 

Every October, Batanes’ second summer, migratory birds fly in from Siberia and darken the skies. Whales come in the vicinity to calve. Giant sea turtles lay their eggs on the beaches and juvenile tiger sharks patrol the waters.

 

 

(To be continued)

BUSH PHOTOWALK IN THE BIG SMOKE

 

(Barefoot in the black iron sands, buffeted by freezing wind and rain, I shot the sunset at Bethells Beach, West Auckland with my Huawei P9 Plus. Photo Courtesy of Kai Lenhberg).

 

On my last day in Auckland, I thought I’ve done everything – trekking, scenic touring by bus and Cessna plane, sailing, jet-boating, heli-hiking, food-tripping, visiting national parks, gardens, volcanoes, mountains, glaciers, geysers, hot beaches, spas, museums, malls and theaters.

 

I’ve had a grand adventure for over a month – 5 weeks to be exact – and resigned myself to an anti-climax.

 

But at the last minute, on impulse, I booked an 8-hour Laughing Chestnut Photowalk.

 

(Me, trekking at Cascade Kauri in the Waitakere Ranges. Photo Courtesy of Kai Lehnberg.)

 

I can always use more visuals, I thought. Maybe I can even discover a face of the city I haven’t explored.

 

(Me snapping photos on the nature walk with my P9 Plus. Photo courtesy of Kai Lehnberg.)

 

My guide, Kai Lenhberg, picked me up at my hostel.  With his blond hair tied back in a ponytail and that smile of easy familiarity, he looked more like a technopreneur than a professional photographer with a Ph.D. in Biotechnology from Germany, his birth country.

 

Kai fell in love with New Zealand’s wild beauty two decades ago and settled in Auckland in 2011 with wife, Mila. Last year, the couple set up their own firm, Laughing Chestnut Ltd., to sell Kai’s fabulous landscape shots and offer photography tours at the Waitakere Regional Park.

 

Interesting corporate name, I noted.

 

As a student, Kai was an avid lensman, tinkering with film cameras, developing films, making his own prints. At university, he abandoned his hobby. But his parents gifted him with a digicam, which he brought to his graduation party. Then he spotted this empty chestnut husk on a stone bench. It resembled a laughing face.

 

He couldn’t resist it. As soon as he snapped the shutter, his old passion rekindled. “It’s my turning point. I knew I want to be a full-time photographer.”

 

West of Auckland, in the Waitakere Ranges, he found his personal paradise – best “backyard” a nature worshipper can have, off the beaten track, a mini Abel Tasman National Park look-alike – same terrain, just 30 kilometers outside the city. So near, yet so wild.

(My unedited shot of the Waitakere Ranges, using a Canon EOS 700D.)

Here, he took thousands of pictures. Now, he’s escorting people to his favorite spots for photo walks.

 

(My unedited shot of the Waitakere Ranges using a Huawei P9 Plus.)

The Waitakere Ranges, a chain of hills over 1,500 feet high spanning 25 kilometers, are part of the uplifted slopes of the giant Waitakere undersea volcano which erupted 22 million years ago.

 

(Another shot of me at the Cascade Kauri Trail. Photo Courtesy of Kai Lehnberg.)

In Māori, Waitakere means “Deep Water”. The forest, they named “Te Wao Nui o Tiriwa”, The Great Forest of Tiriwa – their thousand-year-old ancestor who carried Rangitoto (“Sky Blood”) Island to the Hauraki Gulf. It’s 16,000 hectares blanketed with hardwood – Kauri, Rimu, Kahikatea-  still regenerating after two centuries of logging and farming.

 

(My unedited shot of the Guardian of the Waitakere using a P9 Plus.)

It’s also the abode of endangered giant kauri snails, glow worms and native long-tailed bats. Plans are afoot to re-introduce threatened Kiwi here. The bellbird, wiped out by a virus, is expected to make a comeback as well.

 

(My unedited shot of some Flora in the Waitakere using the P9 Plus.)

 

I can’t believe such a wilderness could thrive so close to the city – until Kai took me there in his four-wheel drive.

 

In less than half an hour, we were cruising under living green canopies. Only briefly did we stop at an overlook at the edge of a cliff at Rose Hellaby’s House to view the Big Smoke below us.

(My unedited shot of fern tree fiddleheads on the trail, using the P9 Plus.)

 

Rose, a singleton philanthropist and lady adventurer of the 1930’s, lived here, cultivating her gardens for 35 years. That was after she rode elephants and hunted tigers in India, cruised down the Nile in Egypt, explored Venezuela, Brazil, Trinidad, Java, Mexico, Suriname and South Africa. She bequeathed her home to the city after her death, so everyone can enjoy the views she loved best.

 

Rain fell as we reached the overlook though I can still make out part of Auckland’s skyline, its dead volcanoes and the harbor beyond.

 

(Tree Ferns in the Waitakere, unedited, shot with my P9 Plus.)

Kai pulled out a raincoat for me from his backpack which also contains a first aid kit, a Personal Locator Beacon (PLB) for emergencies, several lenses he thought I can use, plus filters.

 

He dished out photography tips, showing me how to use a lens better suited for landscape. When robins and fantails flitted tantalizingly close and I tried shooting them, he apologized for not bringing a long lens. He hadn’t thought I’ll be interested in birds. His wife, Mila, loved watching them, so he took up bird photography though his forte is landscape.

 

At the back of his 4WD, he kept a cooler of drinks, a container of sandwiches, candies and energy bars. He’s got wet wipes and towels for muddy feet and fingers. And he carried everything for me to leave my hands free to snap away as we trekked to Cascade Kauri.

(Cascade Kauri, unedited, taken with my Canon 700D.)

The rain pounded on us intermittently. Not surprising, as this area receives lots of rainfall year-round. And while this meant sloshing through puddles, deep mud and flashfloods, it produces breath taking misty effects, rainbows and waterfalls.

 

(Fiddleheads bunched on tree fern crown, unedited, shot with my P9 Plus.)

 

Once, Kai took a pro photographer on this walk in a heavy downpour. On the spot, rainwater gushing from a rocky overhang created a magnificent cataract. His client spent the whole afternoon there, shooting the spectacle from every angle, mostly from behind the watery veil.

 

Today, the showers didn’t conjure waterfalls. But they beaded the ancient trees and the moss carpets like a sprinkling of diamonds.

 

(My unedited shot of moss colonizing a tree trunk on the trail, shot with the P9 Plus.)

 

 

I sighed. If only my lens can capture that.

 

I’ve always found it difficult to shoot under the dark canopy and splinters of overcast skies, with such a profusion of shapes and colors. Paint it, yes. I’m a self-taught painter and can manipulate images on canvas.

(My unedited shot of the Cascade Track into the Kauri Grove using my Canon 700D.)

Anyway, it’s refreshing just to walk here, taking in the living breath of the ancient lords of the forest, touching and embracing their 500-year old trunks as we hiked  the Upper Kauri Track.

 

(My unedited shot of a Kauri Crown  on the Track, with my P9 Plus.)

The umbrella crowns of black tree ferns soaring 60 feet high shaded us as we turned to Cascade Track into Kauri Grove.

(Black Tree Fern, Unedited, shot with my Canon 700D.)

 

(Patterned cross-section of a fallen tree fern trunk, unedited, shot with my P9 Plus.)

 

Some trees towered close to 200 feet, thrusting up alongside conifers draped in vines and mosses.

 

(Kauri hosts so many other plants, unedited shot with my Canon 700D.)

 

 

A Northern Rata, one of the tallest native flowering trees, managed to creep up on a mature Kauri and latch on tight.

 

The Rata starts out as an epiphyte – a plant perched on a host tree high in the forest canopy – before sending roots down to the ground, strangling its host. Kauris defend themselves by shedding their branches, dislodging stranglers. But this regal tree wasn’t fast enough  to escape the Rata’s  deadly embrace.

 

Why don’t rangers kill the strangler? Kai shrugged. Mostly, they just let nature take its course.

 

Kauris are mooring points for so much life, hosting half a hundred other species in their crowns. In the Waipoua Forest, close to 250 kilometers away, rangers found an over two thousand year old Kauri with a 400-year old Rata growing on its canopy. Mercifully, a storm dislodged the Rata from the Kauri.

 

(My unedited shot of more Kauris on the Trail using the P9 Plus.)

But even as stranglers kill, they benefit other wildlings, providing food and shelter for bellbirds, tui, and kaka parrots.

 

And this forest is alive with birds. A plump robin shadowed us and flew within arm’s reach, extremely interested, when Kai turned up the earth beside the path. The robin’s an insect eater and used to people bringing him mealworms.

(Unedited, Curious Robin in Waitakere, shot with my Canon 700D.)

Above our heads, a huge wood pigeon drowsed on a branch, too lazy and too full of berries to budge from his perch. Kakas foraged among the fiddleheads, green parrots rustled and cackled higher up the canopy.

 

On the forest floor, shaded by giant trees, kidney ferns, mosses, native kauri grass and flax prospered.

(Unedited Waitakere Kauri grove with Kauri Grass and Flax taken with my Canon 700D.)

(Kauri Grass blanketing forest floor at Kauri Grove. Unedited, shot with my Canon 700D.)

(Kidney Ferns, unedited, shot with my P9 Plus.)

I’m familiar with the sphagnum moss, so soft it’s used for bedding and packing material but it was my first time to see the biggest (and tallest) member of the moss family – the bristly juniper hair cap, Dawsonia Superba, which grows up to two feet in height. It’s used as diuretic for urinary obstructions and edema.

 

(Dawsonia Superba, world’s biggest moss, unedited, shot with my P9 Plus.)

Next, we drove to Goldie Bush Scenic Reserve and hiked where two streams meet to Mokoroa Falls.

 

(Me taking pics of Mokoroa Falls with my P9 Plus. Photo courtesy of Kai Lehnberg.)

 

(Unedited, Mokoroa Falls, shot with my P9.)

 

(Unedited, Mokoroa Falls, shot with my P9.)

 

Strange that they named the cataract after the Mokoroa, the large white ghost moth larvae – the Maori’s spiritual messenger .

 

The Mokoroa gnaws on tree trunks, feeding on their sap. Hence, the local saying that although the Mokoroa is small, the Puriri tree falls – a David and Goliath analogy.

( Unedited, Mokoroa Falls, shot with my P9.)

 

Tōtara trees grew along the path, shedding their barks in papery flakes. Known for their longevity and their hard straight-grained wood resistant to rot, the Māori use their timber for carving and the making of traditional boats or “waka”.

 

(Unedited, shot of Totara shedding off its bark,  with my P9 Plus.)

But the most odd tree I found was the Lancewood which evolved drastically to deter munching Moas – the 12-foot tall, over half ton, flightless birds which roamed this bush in prehistoric times.

 

Like Madagascar and the Galapagos, New Zealand’s flora and fauna developed in isolation after the country broke off from the rest of super continent Gondwana, allowing many bizarre adaptations.

 

The young Lancewood looks so different from the mature tree that even early botanists mistook them for two different species. The juvenile nine-foot tall lancewood sports weaponized, dagger-like leaves, complete with warning spots, short of saying to the Moa: “Don’t eat me, I’ll kill you.”

(Young weaponized Lancewood leaf, shot with my P9.)

Once mature and safe from being eaten, , the Lancewood, which grows 60 feet high, well above the Moa’s height, relaxes its defenses and a becomes a normal tree, with a bushy top. The leaves round out, widen and lose their teeth.

 

(Mature Lancewood Tree.)

 

We reached our final destination, Bethells Beach, an hour and a half before sunset, when run-off from the sea looks like molten gold and the wet black iron sands mirror the swirling tangerine, pink and purple of the skies.

(My unedited shot of Lion’s Head at Bethells Beach using my P9 Plus.)

(My unedited shot of Bethells Beach with my P9.)

(Unedited shot of Bethells Beach with my Canon 700D.)

A couple embraced at the water’s edge. A girl jogged by with her retriever to the dunes. Then the whole beach was ours.

(Unedited shot of Bethells Beach with my Canon 700D.)

(Unedited shot of Bethells Beach with my Canon 700D.)

 

I kicked off my sandals and ran barefoot on the sand littered with millions of Spirula shells – bleached brittle skeletons of ram’s horn squids.

 

(Spirula shell on Bethells Beach.)

These relatives of the cuttlefish live 3,000 feet under the sea, only coming up to 1,000 feet below the surface at night, emitting a green light at the tip of their mantle, giving them their other name, tail-light squids.

 

On the other hand, the black beach sand comes from the volcanic rocks of Mount Taranaki almost half a thousand kilometers from here, carried north by coastal currents.

(Unedited shot of Bethells Beach with my Canon 700D.)

The stark black stretch offered a dramatic contrast to the white surf line battering the shore and misting the rock face of Lion’s Head.

 

(Unedited shot of Bethells Beach with my Canon 700D.)

(Shooting a fast-sinking sun at Bethells Beach, unedited, with my P9 Plus.)

The wind screamed in my ears. The rain felt icy on my face, but I kept on snapping away with both my Canon 700D and my Huawei P9 Plus as the sun ducked in the horizon, a ball of flame vanishing and re-emerging behind clouds bloated with rain.

 

(Unedited shot of Bethells Beach with my Canon 700D.)

 

(Unedited shot of Bethells Beach with my Canon 700D.)

 

 

I didn’t even have time to fiddle with the camera settings of my two gadgets because the sun was sinking so fast.

(My last shot of the sunset at Bethells Beach, unedited, with my P9 Plus.)

(Me taking pics of Bethells Beach Sunset with my P9 Plus. Photo courtesy of Kai Lehnberg.)

 

I just fired away until it was too dark to shoot. Then I watched a huge cloud dump rain far out at sea. Next second, the rain was pounding on me.

(Me taking pics of Bethells Beach Sunset with my P9 Plus. Photo courtesy of Kai Lehnberg.)

(Rain far out at sea – before it poured on me! Unedited, taken with my P9 Plus.)

I was forced to ran back to the car. But I went home happy.

 

(Me taking pics of Bethells Beach Sunset with my P9 Plus. Photo courtesy of Kai Lehnberg.)

 

USEFUL LINKS:

For Photowalks in wild West Auckland: http://www.thelaughingchestnut.co.nz, http://tours.thelaughingchestnut.co.nz/

For Manila-Auckland flights: http://www.philippineairlines.com

For destination guides and trip-planning to Auckland and the rest of New Zealand:http://www.newzealand.com/int/

For exploring New Zealand by bus:http://www.straytravel.com/explore-your-pass-options/stray-journeys/cook/)

For Trip Planning in Auckland:http://www.straytravel.com/new-zealand-travel-information/destination-guide/auckland/

 

 

 

MY ULTIMATE BUCKET LIST

EMMIE V. ABADILLA

My ultimate bucket list covers sacred places, mountains, exotic islands and wilderness.

Fortunately, I won a free round trip ticket to London from Philippine Airlines (PAL). So, in the middle of this year I can strike off Stonehenge from the line-up. Too long I’ve yearned to feel the energies within this mystic 3,000 year old ring of standing stones, sacred to pagan Druids.

Of course, while I’m in the United Kingdom, I’ll look for ghosts in the Tower of London, where Anne Boleyn, mother of Queen Elizabeth 1 was beheaded – one of over a hundred people executed there for four centuries.

I’ll grab the chance to ogle at the golden hoards and antiquities of the British Museum, with its Rosetta stone and the Elgin marbles, which was missing from the Acropolis when I visited Greece.

I’ll tour Westminster Abbey for the tombs of my favorite bards in the Poets’ Corner and venture to Stratford-upon-Avon, William Shakespeare’s birthplace, onwards to Cornwall’s Tintagel Castle, the legendary home of King Arthur.

I might still pursue my plan to fly to the Middle East in two months, so maybe I can cross to Iran to see the ruins of the Persepolis, home of ancient Persian rulers, which a drunk Alexander the Great burned in retribution for the Persians’ razing down the Acropolis.

And I intend to pilgrimage to the Holy Land. In my travels I have seen many relics of the Holy Cross – from its wood to the nails used to crucify Jesus but I want to pay my respects in the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre, the site of Golgotha (the Hill of Calvary), where He was nailed on the cross and where He was buried.

Likewise, I feel compelled to do a second pilgrimage in Europe to visit the tombs of my favourite saints, among them, Saint Rita, patron saint of the Impossible, whose incorrupt body lies in Cascia, Italy and Padre Pio, whose crypt is in San Giovanni Rotondo, as well as St. Bernadette, in Nevers, France.

I wish to pray in the monastery of Mont Saint-Michel in Normandy, where my favourite angel, St. Michael, appeared to the bishop and instructed him to build a church in the rocky islet.

Uluru in Central Australia, beckons to me too. “The Island Mountain” is sacred to the aboriginal “people of the dreaming”.

Actually, I have lots of exotic islands in my list.

Foremost is Easter Island, one of the remotest in the planet, with its 887 “Moai” – giant ghostly stone statues of the deified ancestors of its Rapa Nui people.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have touched the “Moai” which the islanders sent to visit the Louvre, Paris to “spread spiritual energy to transform humanity”. He instilled in me such a longing to see his country.

Socotra Island in Yemen, one of the world’s most isolated landforms on earth, also draws me irresistibly, with its unearthly landscape of dragon blood trees whose red sap is used to treat the wounds of gladiators in ancient days.

Galapagos, home of the giant tortoises which gave the islands their name, the inspiration for Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution, is a must-see for me before its rich biodiversity is gone forever. Humans, introduced species and global warming now threaten this Eden.

At the same time, I intend to explore the Amazonas and the Pantanal wetlands of Brazil, last stronghold of wild jaguars. Then I’ll proceed to Bolivia to volunteer at the Inti Warayassi sanctuary to care for big cats, ocelots, margays and pumas.

Because I can’t shake off my addiction to big cats, I intend to return to Africa but first, I’ll visit India’s Bandhavgarh, Ranthambore and Jim Corbett’s National Parks, along with the Bangladeshi Sunderbans.

The last is home to over half a thousand man-eating tigers who kill as many as 250 people a year but I just have to go there.

Furthermore, I’m still in love with the mountains and the kingdoms of ice.

Russia’s Kamchatka is high on my list – the breeding ground of Steller’s sea eagles, golden eagles and gyr falcons, grizzlies, wolves and lynxes.

So is Patagonia, from where I’ll set out to Antarctica, to seek leopard seals among the ice floes and penguins in their rookeries among towering glaciers. I hope to spot blue whales too and climb Mount Erebus while I’m there.

Alaska remains to be a dream destination for climb Denali, “The High One” and the Aleutian Islands, “The Home of the Winds” in the Bering Sea.

In Churchill, Manitoba, I wish to observe polar bears and behold the aurora borealis.

In the Yukon, I’ll learn mushing and travel by dog sled, perhaps even watch the Yukon Quest – a 1,000 mile international dog sled race, the toughest in the world, where women have won the top place.

Same way, I aim to solo-trek in Tibet and Nepal as well as the base camps of Mount Everest, the world’s highest, and K2, “The Savage Mountain” – the most dangerous, which kills one out of four climbers.

I’d love to aim for the summit though I can’t afford the price – around P4 Million, including gear, for Everest and just a little less for K2.

But if I survive through the other items in my bucket list and manage to get expedition sponsors, I’ll go for it.

The oldest person to summit K2 was a 65-year old Spanish climber although only five women made it to the peak and three of them died on the descent.

The oldest man to summit Everest, a Japanese, was 80 and his rival declared he’ll try for another summit till he’s 84. The oldest woman to gain the peak, also a Japanese, was 73.

That means, I have a reasonable number of decades left, if I’m lucky.

And if I die in the attempt, I’ll be happy to end my life in the ultimate adventure rather than in a hospital bed with tubes feeding into my flesh.

(Copyright to me. Reprinted from my Manila Bulletin travel column, “My World in a Flashpack”, Confessions of a Bucket Lister.)

CONFESSIONS OF A BUCKET LISTER (PART 1)

EMMIE V. ABADILLA

I scribbled my first travel bucket list aged eleven because doctors said I’ll be dead before I’m twelve.

Not fair, I seethed, to kick the bucket when I haven’t ventured outside my birthplace yet, much less explored the best places on earth.

Dying didn’t scare me. Not having lived enough, not seeing the world, the journey ending before it begins – that’s my greatest regret.

It’s hardest on my parents. Ma can’t stop crying. Pa prayed and fretted.

Me? I picked a gown. Dress me up before you put me in the box, Ma, I said. Make me look like a debutante. No flowers. No dirge. Play the fiddle for my send-off, Pa. Burn all my diaries. Let the cats inherit my bed.

In the meantime, I’m supposed to have a year – no more, no less. I can amuse myself with lists.

I scribbled what I wanted to do in far-off places. My parents don’t have the money to send me anywhere, of course. They’ve never been outside the country themselves.

But even then, I’m a veteran of vicarious pleasures.

Pretending to be all grown up, a rich adventuress embarking on a grand tour, I typed letters inquiring about my dream destinations to embassies, chambers of commerce and tourist establishments overseas.

I was ecstatic when Pa handed me my first response mail – a fat envelope from Africa with a prospectus of safaris, glossy booklets showing big cats, wildlife migrations, grass huts and savannahs.

The postman marvelled at the volume of my letters. This little girl was swamped with packets crammed with price lists, proposed itineraries, brochures of breathtaking landscapes – golden dunes and red rock canyons, emerald seas and ice-capped mountains.

Then doctors disclosed my X-ray plates got switched with a terminally-ill girl my age.

I’m not going to die after all.

But I’ll still die one day. That’s for sure. Better live to the hilt while I can.

It took me over three decades to check off everything in my childhood bucket list. But it’s done.

The second item on my line-up – canyoneering in Utah and Arizona – was the first thing I accomplished. It helped that I got a free round trip ticket and friends in the U.S.

Item number 10, travelling from Batanes to Tawi-Tawi, took ten years. In the intervals, I got my scuba diver’s license, swam with whale sharks, surfed, parasailed, body-boarded, explored forests, caves and mountains all over the archipelago.

City destinations proved easier than wilderness trips. I breezed through watching Broadway shows and browsing the Metropolitan Museum in New York, visiting Hollywood and touring the homes of film greats in Beverly Hills, California, making the rounds of theme parks in Orlando, Florida and watching Cirque du Suleil in Las Vegas, Nevada.

In Cambodia, I temple-hopped across three cities, lingering in the Angkor temples. In Thailand, I trekked the wilderness, saw my first wild tiger and lived among Buddhist monks. I visited Borobudur and got my “wayang kulit” (shadow) puppet in Indonesia, studied falconry in Singapore.

In Beijing, I climbed four sections of the Great Wall of China, gawked at the treasures of the Kremlin Armoury in Moscow, sailed along the Nile in Egypt, gazed at Tutankhamun’s golden mask, visited the pyramids and the Valley of the Kings.

In Turkey, I went to Hagia Sophia and viewed sacred relics in Istanbul, prayed in the Blessed Virgin’s last home in Ephesus. I backpacked in 12 countries in Europe, desert-trekked in Dubai, rode the trans-Siberian train, gallivanted in Ulaan Bataar, the world’s coldest capital, and hunted with golden eagles in Ulgii, Mongolia.

What followed was glacier-trekking, climbing the Rockies and backpacking in British Columbia and Alberta, Canada. I hand-fed wild dolphins in Tangalooma, Australia. I climbed Japan’s sacred Fuji-San and temple-hopped in Kyoto.

I cared for exotics big enough to kill me in my volunteer vacations – orphaned tigers, abused lions and leopards as well as traumatized elephants in Thailand, more big cats in Nevada and Africa.

The moment I started checking off the really dangerous items on my list – the ones that required waivers when you’re killed, a number of friends suspected I’m sort of “cramming” because I’m dying soon.

Odd, it’s when people learn how little time they have that the travel bug bites hard.

I’ve come across terminally ill globe-trotters seizing on brief remissions to complete their bucket lists.

One guy, who slaved away at his business all his life, sold everything he owned and vowed to spend his last penny on the road before he croaks. The worst cases coerced their tourist guides to stand in as caregivers.

In my latest safari, a fellow traveller flaunted her still fresh scars. Surgeons carved her up from chest down below the navel to remove a malignant mass and half her diseased organs. Afterwards, they told her to put her affairs in order. Instead, she drew up her bucket list and set off.

Incidentally, the first item on my childhood line-up – wildlife safaris and dives with great white sharks in Africa – was the second to the last I crossed out several months ago.

And now, it’s time for a new bucket list – the second and the ultimate.

As could be expected, the roster will be longer now and harder. I’m not as strong as before. I can’t heft heavy backpacks over the mountains the way I used to, workout six hours straight daily or run so many kilometers.

I’ve acquired lots of injuries through the years, among them 17 stitches in my left hand from a cougar bite, wrist bones still separated, damaged shoulders, fractured leg bone from a race plus extra weight from surfeits of hotel meals. Funding remains to be a huge headache.

Yet I dream on. I’ve seen so much. I need to see more. It’s the old rule: the more you learn about less and less. I’m still hungry for life and that hunger will never be appeased.

(Copyright to me. Reprinted from my Sunday column at Manila Bulletin, “My World In a Flashpack”.)