Sailing across Lake Ta’al

As a relative newcomer to Manila, I have been trawling the guide books and the memories of long term residents for good day or weekend trips out of Manila.  I quickly discovered that Tagatay and Lake Ta’al tend to be at the top of everyone’s ‘to do’ list.

Lake Ta’al (two syllables) is approximately 60 km south of Manila, and encircles  an island where the smallest but most active volcano in the Philippines resides. To prove its potency, recent rumblings led to the evacuation of the seventy-odd resident islanders. Over the centuries, volcanic eruptions have buried numerous lakeside towns under volcanic ash or submerged them under rising waters, so they were hardly over-reacting.

Barely a fortnight earlier I had driven up for the day with my son and his grandfather, daring him to accompany me on the flying fox across the gorge at Picnic Grove. That adventure has yet to be realized as we were frog-marched off to the shores of Lake Ta’al by two eager guides. Apparently, a trip across the lake to the volcano would suit our spirit of adventure much better.

So instead of the anticipated flight across the canyon in a hammock-like harness, we found ourselves driving down a steep and tortuously winding road to the shore, past a dozen or more mad cyclists pedaling furiously UP. From there we tottered aboard an outrigger boat and headed across a white-capped lake to the island.

The ride across was unexpectedly rough, thanks to a wildly exuberant wind. Draped in tarpaulin sheets that gave us no protection whatsoever from the tidal waves sweeping over the sides, we were rapidly drenched, as the captain dodged and bounced over white-capped waves.

Eventually, saturated to the bone, we landed on the island’s grey beach, hair dripping into our eyes and shirts clinging, thankful only that the water had proved unexpectedly warm. But as it turned out, we were also thankful for the natural air-conditioning from our wet clothes. As we set off up the hot, dusty track to the edge of the crater, we were degrees cooler than most in the late morning sun – and far more comfortable than those who chose to clamber onto the backs of the bony Korean ponies that limp back and forth up the track, their riders often visibly heavier than their steeds, their feet dragging in the dirt.

We also rejected the overtures of a dozen local salespeople determined to sell us their protective surgical masks.  Their sales technique failed dismally, as they were all wearing their own bandanas which they cheerfully  admitted were “much better ma’am!. So we battled on without assistance, although we were occasionally forced to duck low and blink furiously to avoid handfuls of swirling volcanic dust entering our eyes, mouths and nostrils as the ponies skidded past us down the narrow track.

Fortunately, we were soon clear of the dust and skimming along the ridge path, with sumptuous views across the island to the lake, and across the lake to the hills and the sea beyond. Despite the growing heat – “mad dogs and Englishmen” began to reverberate in my ears – dodging the galloping mustangs and frequent photo opportunities to slow us down, the end came in sight sooner than I had anticipated. A final clamber across volcanic rocks and we were greeted by the cloying scent of diluted sulphuric acid and the deep blue waters of a lake within a lake within a sea. We ignored the ubiquitous t-shirt stalls to pose against the railings and admire the view…

And then we raced back down the hill, reaching the beach just as our jeans had finally dried out, in time to leap up the ramp onto the boat and get soaked all over again. The guides were right. It was a hell of an adventure.