I used to think that the best way to travel was to see as many places as possible. If there was a beach, a waterfall, a historical site, and a famous landmark nearby, why not visit all of them? I had traveled all that way, so I might as well make the most of it, right?
But my trip to Camiguin reminded me that seeing a place and experiencing it are two different things.
It wasn’t a bad trip. Quite the opposite, actually. I had fun with my friends, tried new things, ate good food, and saw places I had never visited before. There were plenty of moments worth remembering, including the less glamorous ones: eating beef batchoy noodles, devouring three kilos of lanzones, and somehow ending up cooking sardines with misua for everyone because we needed an extra ulam. Because travel is not always about beautiful views and carefully planned photographs. Sometimes, it’s about feeding a group of hungry people.
But somewhere between the scheduled stops and the meals shared with friends, I found myself thinking about the kind of places I wanted to stay in, and the kind of traveler I wanted to become.
It started with the water.
The sea that was too open
Our visit to White Island began early in the morning. The sand was almost impossibly white, and the water sparkled under the sunlight. I remember wondering whether the sand was really sand or tiny fragments of seashells. It was beautiful. And it was also incredibly bright.
White Island is a sandbar, an open stretch of white sand surrounded by an enormous body of water. There was very little to shield us from the sun or the vastness of the sea. And even with other people around, I felt exposed. I mean, knew we were in a safe spot, but the ocean was still the ocean. It stretched out around us, vast and powerful, with depths no one could not see and currents nobody could predict.
The sea has a straightforward kind of danger. You know it is enormous and it can carry you farther than you intend to go. You can admire its beauty without forgetting that it is not something you can control. Maybe I would feel differently in a sheltered cove, where the surrounding landscape makes the water feel more contained. But between a beach and a waterfall, I suspect I would still choose the waterfall. There is something about freshwater that makes me feel more at ease.
I know rivers and waterfalls have their own dangers, of course. Rocks can be slippery. Currents can be stronger than they appear. And water that looks inviting can still be unpredictable. But in the rivers I have visited, the risks have felt more tangible. I could see the rocks beneath my feet. I could feel the temperature of the water. I could watch where the current moves.
The sea feels vast in a way that can be overwhelmingly straightforward. A waterfall, on the other hand, invites me to wonder.
The places we visited
Camiguin had more to offer than beaches and waterfalls. We visited the Old Church Ruins and the Sunken Cemetery, two places with histories that extend far beyond the photographs people take. At the ruins, I found myself imagining the church as it might once have been. Churches serve as places of refuge, especially in difficult times, and I wondered what people might have carried with them when they sought shelter there during the volcanic eruption. Then, naturally, my mind wandered to the possibility of buried treasure. Perhaps the wealthy had brought their valuables with them. Perhaps there were things beneath the ground that no one had discovered. I have no evidence for any of this. My imagination was simply having a good time.
Meanwhile, the Sunken Cemetery left me with a different kind of curiosity. There was the cross rising above the water, a visible marker of a place whose story extends beneath the surface. I did not have much time to explore the site, so most of what I imagined remained just that—imagination.
White Island, too, might have been a different experience if we had stayed longer. I could have spent more time lying on the sand beneath an umbrella, watching the water, and letting the morning pass without thinking about where we needed to go next. But our itinerary had other plans. We moved from one destination to another, taking photographs and making the most of the time we had. And it’s perfectly okay because sometimes, a trip is simply an opportunity to see places you might not otherwise get to visit.
Still, I began to notice the difference between having been somewhere and having experienced it. For example, when someone asks whether you have visited a place, it’s easy to say, “Yes, I’ve been there.” When they ask how it was, you can say it was beautiful. And… that’s all you can say. And it’s not even because the place wasn’t worth visiting. It’s just that you didn’t have enough time to discover what it meant to you.
Then we went to Tuasan Falls.
The waterfall that made me stay
Tuasan Falls was my favorite part of the Camiguin trip. The waterfall was surrounded by rocks and greenery, tucked into a landscape that felt worlds away from the open expanse of White Island. The water was cold and refreshing. The sound of it falling filled the space, making it easier to stop thinking about everything else. Abi and I stood there watching it for several minutes, and we didn’t even realize how long we had been standing there until we finally looked at each other. At some point, we had apparently decided that watching the waterfall was enough of an activity.
“At talagang pinanood na lang natin siya,” I said. We laughed. But that was exactly what we had been doing.
I watched the water and wondered about the force behind it. Whoever (or whatever) created this place had made something powerful. I found myself thinking, Who watches over you? Who is your guardian? And there was something mystical about the falls that I couldn’t quite explain.
Maybe it was the way the water came down from somewhere above us, its source hidden beyond what we could see. A river has a journey of its own. Rain falls on mountains and forests, flows over the land, gathers into streams, and eventually feeds rivers and waterfalls. Some water travels underground before emerging from springs. By the time it reaches the waterfall in front of me, it has already traveled a distance I can only imagine.
The sea, by comparison, seems to announce itself. “Here I am,” it says. “Look at how vast I am.”
A waterfall makes me wonder where it began. Where did this water come from? What lies beyond the trees? Where will it go after it falls into the pool below?
I could have stood there longer, listening to the water and thinking about nothing in particular. The sound seemed to give my mind a place to rest. The water was cold enough to make me want to stay in it. I imagined standing beneath the falls, feeling the water rush over me, although the area was cordoned off and entering it wasn’t allowed.
Instead, I stood where I was allowed to stay and watched. I thought about how lovely it would be to camp nearby, if there was a safe and permitted place to do so. I imagined pitching a tent, drinking coffee or eating spicy cheese ramen while listening to the waterfall (oh yes, even in the middle of a mystical experience, I was thinking about food). I would happily invite someone to join me. Or perhaps I would go alone. Either way, I imagined staying until evening, watching the light change around the trees and listening to the water without having to leave for another destination.
The thought of swimming or even skinny dipping beneath a waterfall at night, with only the moonlight around me, crossed my mind, too. It sounded like the sort of experience that would feel almost otherworldly, provided it could be done safely and in a place where it was allowed.
I wasn’t necessarily looking for solitude. I could imagine sharing the experience with someone I trusted completely, someone who would understand why we might spend an unreasonable amount of time sitting beside a waterfall doing absolutely nothing.
What I wanted was time. Time to watch. Time to listen. Time to let the place become more than just another stop on an itinerary.
When we finally left Tuasan Falls, it surprised me a bit that I wasn’t devastated by the thought that I might never return. My recent travels had taught me something about leaving places behind. I could appreciate a destination without feeling that I had to revisit it to preserve the experience.
There are other waterfalls in Rizal and Quezon. There will be other camping trips, other rivers, other places where I can sit beside the water and lose track of time.
I didn’t need to return to Tuasan Falls specifically. I just wanted to find that feeling again.
Learning to move with a place
Looking back, I realized that some of my favorite trips this year had something in common.
In Palawan, there were moments when I simply stayed by the hotel pool, looking at the sea. We had a schedule for the Underground River, but outside the necessary arrangements, there was room to do things when we felt like doing them. I could swim, rest, or get a massage without constantly thinking about the next destination.
The wellness retreat had a similar rhythm. There were massages, sound bathing, and forest bathing: experiences that required me to slow down rather than hurry through them.
During our three-day, two-night trip at Camp Daloy, the setup was not as orderly as I would have wanted it to be, but we had time. We could decide to cook because we were hungry, rather than because we needed to leave for another stop. We could settle into the place instead of treating it as somewhere we were merely passing through.
I even remember thinking that I had somehow become part of the place, even if only temporarily. And that is what I want from travel.
I don’t mind itineraries. I don’t need every trip to be spontaneous, and I understand that some destinations require reservations, fixed schedules, and careful planning. I simply want enough time for each experience to become something more than a photograph. I want to eat when I’m hungry, rest when I’m tired, and stay a little longer when something catches my attention. I want to watch the sea without immediately thinking about the next activity, or sit beside a waterfall long enough to wonder where its water began.
I want to be able to answer the question, “How was it?” with something more than “Maganda.” And there is no need for every place to transform me. I just want to give myself the chance to notice what a place offers beyond its appearance.
Camiguin was a happy trip. I enjoyed the company, the food, the jokes, and the unexpected moments that happened between destinations. I would not trade those memories simply because some of our stops felt rushed.
But Tuasan Falls reminded me of something I want to carry into my future travels. I don’t necessarily need fewer destinations. I need more room to experience them.
The water I keep coming back to
It’s been weeks since the trip ended and I still think about Tuasan Falls. It might have been because I believe it was one of the most beautiful waterfall I will ever see. Or because I feel that I must return to it someday. But most importantly, I think about it because, for a few minutes, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
I was standing in cold, flowing water, surrounded by rocks and trees, listening to the sound of the falls. My friends were beside me but we weren’t discussing where to go next or checking how much time we had left. Abi and I were simply watching. And for someone who had spent much of the trip moving from one place to another, that small moment felt different.
Like I said earlier, I used to think that traveling meant making the most of every destination. See the sights. Take the photographs. Try the food. Make the trip count. Now, I think there is another way to make a trip count: give yourself enough time to experience what you came for.
Maybe next time, I’ll find a waterfall in nearby provinces and spend an entire afternoon beside it. Maybe I’ll bring coffee, a book, or a packet of instant noodles. Maybe I’ll go camping with friends, or sit quietly by the water on my own. I have no idea exactly where I’ll find that feeling again. But I know I’ll keep looking.
The sea will always have its vastness, its brightness, and its own particular kind of beauty. I will still admire it, even if I sometimes feel too exposed standing in the middle of all that open water. But when I think about the kind of place I want to return to—not necessarily the same place, but the same feeling—I think of freshwater. The coolness of it. The sound of it moving. The mystery of where it began and where it will go.
I think of a waterfall that made me stop long enough to listen.
And that’s probably the kind of travel I want to keep coming back to: not simply arriving somewhere beautiful, but staying long enough to feel that, for a little while, I was truly there.
