22/05/2025
๐๐๐๐ง๐จ๐ฅ๐ || ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐๐๐๐ง ๐๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐ข๐จ๐ง: ๐ ๐๐๐ซ๐๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ ๐๐ญ ๐ ๐๐ซ๐ข๐๐
๐๐ฒ: Rosmaine Leih G. Redera
Hidden beneath the folds of a map, barely noticeable yet luminous like a distant star, lies a province shrouded in mysteryโSiquijor. For those who dare to venture beyond the veil of its legends, it reveals itself as a treasure trove of unspoiled beauty. The clear seas, fine sands, and tranquil atmosphere offer a solace that feels almost otherworldly. Itโs the kind of paradise that imprints itself on your soul, a place you yearn to revisit time and again. But even paradise isnโt immune to change. Beneath its enchanting allure lies a tale of quiet transformation, told not in grand announcements but in the subtle whispers of everyday life.
I stood at the roadside that day, hunger gnawing at my stomach as I waited for a friend who seemed lost in time. The sun was high, its heat merciless, and my patience was wearing thin. I had skipped a hearty breakfast, rushing out in anticipation of an early meeting. My growling stomach reminded me of my haste. Desperate, I fished out a crumpled twenty-peso bill from my walletโjust enough, I thought, for my favorite biscuits. Or so I believed.
At the small roadside store, I handed over my money with the confidence of someone who had memorized the cost of every bite. But the vendorโs words struck like a bolt of lightning: โKulang imong kwarta Day.โ Confused, I asked for the price.
โKulang og saisโ he said, adding that todayโs biscuits are quite expensive. Embarrassed, I returned one of the biscuits and walked away, hunger now mixed with disbelief. In just two days, inflation had crept into even the smallest corners of my world. The price of change, I realized, isnโt always affordable.
The next day brought a different frustration. The sun blazed as I stood by the road, waiting for a tricycle to take me to an appointment. Time felt like molasses, each passing second testing my patience. I've been here for almost three hours, and I almost look like a traffic enforcer from standing for so long, yet no one has stopped to let me ride. Out of sheer boredom, I counted how many had passed by, 11, but not a single one was vacant.
Waiting for a ride here in the province is really difficult; you'll run out of patience because of the long wait. There were tricycles that just passed by me because they had tourists on board. Going back and forth. Foreigners keep coming back, surely looking for resorts or beautiful places to unwind. Who wouldn't be captivated by this province, with its beautiful hidden treasures? Small but rich in natural beauty.
Indeed, the island known as the "island of fire" is truly something to be proud of. It's blazing! Like now, the heat is blazing but I still haven't gotten a ride. I wish I had just been a tourist so that drivers would choose me, for once. Sigh! Good thing I forced myself to extend my patience because finally, a tricycle stopped. Three hours and more patience is what you need to have as a commuter.
It struck me then: Siquijor has changed. The island, once known for its quiet charm, now bustles with life. Tourists flood its shores, drawn to its hidden treasures. Yes, it was already prosperous back then, but over time, almost all of its hidden treasures became famous among the masses.
Artists, well-known individuals from both inside and outside the country have once visited here. There are even movies that were made right here. Every corner of the island has come alive. The roads sparkle with new streetlights, illuminating bustling bistros and resorts. The livelihoods of the businessmen have flourished. Tourism is one of the factors that makes the economy hums with newfound vigor.
But as the island rises in prominence, so do its prices. The once-affordable biscuits now cater to the wallets of foreign visitors. The tricycles prioritize those who pay in dollars, leaving locals to endure the heat and dust. Progress, while celebrated, casts a long shadow on the lives of ordinary people. Siquijor is a paradoxโa jewel that shines brighter with each passing year, yet one whose radiance often blinds us to its cost. The locals are caught in a delicate balancing act, navigating a world where their homeland becomes a playground for others.
Tourism has undeniably brought growth. Jobs have multiplied, businesses have flourished, and the islandโs reputation has soared. But for those of us who call Siquijor home, itโs a bittersweet symphony. The very progress that breathes life into our economy also tightens its grip on our wallets.
Still, this island has a heart, and that heart beats in the stories of its people. It beats in the patient vendors who start their days before the sun rises, in the commuters who wait hours under the sun, and in the unspoken resilience of locals who adapt to change, one small step at a time.
Siquijor is not just a destination; it is a living, breathing community shaped by both the past and the present. For us, it is a home that evolves with every passing tide. Its secrets are not just in its caves or waters but in the everyday lives of its peopleโpeople who quietly carry the weight of its transformation.
Siquijor is ours to protect, to cherish, and to share. And while progress may reshape its face, its soul remains unchanged. It is a beacon, not just for tourists but for those who call it homeโa reminder that even amidst change, we are the ones who give life to this island. We are its fire, its light, its story.
