Halfway through and retracting
Second year is coming to a close, and because of too much hard work built upon feeble ground, I will be exerting more strenuous effort just to dig out my buried hard work for next year to be successful. Burning out is never an issue for me, knowing that pushing my body to its limits garners no harmful side effects; but beyond that, you'll see me walking like a french fry wasted in the open for an entire day.
About my Banaue trip, did I say twenty-thousand words? I meant two hundred and sixty-one. Due to molecular microbiology and the 50 series, I can only recount a few (or at least put down):
Going back uphill with a 5-kilo backpack and only half a liter of plastic-reeking water will only render you tired, and thus you will have to rest more often than going down with the same load, taking gravity into the picture. It just so happened that at five hundred soul-slicing footsteps near our goal we had to rest. To our side was the wooden shed with benches and a table. A handful of local tribesmen were listening to the radio while eating nga-nga, as if waiting for something. Our co-tirees were frazzled, sprawled against the seemingly softest wooden seats, when suddenly a raging local attacked one of the handful at the rest station with an itak, or whatever that sharp blade was called. We were all pulsating dramatically fast, and in an instant, blood spurted out the cut of the poor guy's left arm. The end of the blade even got cut, swirled upward, and thank God it landed on the ground and not on somebody else's face. Afraid and weary, we just wanted to get to our goal as fast as we could. Right back up, Joseph, Joy and I discussed what just happened, and we concluded it could only have been due to either porter fight or love life. We are more inclined to believe it's love life because the attacker looked really pissed off.
Nothing much happened on the way to the bus station, except we top-loaded on a jeepney (Joy, pray that your family won't read this) and sang songs non-stop with our newfound friends (NFF's).
About my Banaue trip, did I say twenty-thousand words? I meant two hundred and sixty-one. Due to molecular microbiology and the 50 series, I can only recount a few (or at least put down):
Going back uphill with a 5-kilo backpack and only half a liter of plastic-reeking water will only render you tired, and thus you will have to rest more often than going down with the same load, taking gravity into the picture. It just so happened that at five hundred soul-slicing footsteps near our goal we had to rest. To our side was the wooden shed with benches and a table. A handful of local tribesmen were listening to the radio while eating nga-nga, as if waiting for something. Our co-tirees were frazzled, sprawled against the seemingly softest wooden seats, when suddenly a raging local attacked one of the handful at the rest station with an itak, or whatever that sharp blade was called. We were all pulsating dramatically fast, and in an instant, blood spurted out the cut of the poor guy's left arm. The end of the blade even got cut, swirled upward, and thank God it landed on the ground and not on somebody else's face. Afraid and weary, we just wanted to get to our goal as fast as we could. Right back up, Joseph, Joy and I discussed what just happened, and we concluded it could only have been due to either porter fight or love life. We are more inclined to believe it's love life because the attacker looked really pissed off.
Nothing much happened on the way to the bus station, except we top-loaded on a jeepney (Joy, pray that your family won't read this) and sang songs non-stop with our newfound friends (NFF's).
