For the last 8 months—and for the next 3 to come—I am part
of a culture whose sole transportation system is composed of a network of
steep, narrow, dark trails and your own two feet (AND quads and calves
and lungs and balance). If you think this is the essence of simplicity, you’re
blissfully misled; with the ample opportunity I’ve had to make substantial
observations on the complexities of trail conditions—and even so, with each
hike, I learn something new and invaluable.
Before getting into that, though, I probably elaborate on
the average Palawano terrain, since my own definition of “trail” has undergone
dramatic reshaping since my arrival. The most rugged American trails seem like superhighways
in comparison. Anyway, 1-they’re really narrow. Imagine a trough about 6
inches wide, with colossal drop-offs on either side, and you’re on the right
track. My balancing muscles are always more tired than my actual walking
muscles. 2-They’re not level. You’re always sliding off one side or
another; hopefully, there’s a vine or tree to catch you. 3—they’re REALLY
steep. Palawanos are short, but they have this super-natural ability of
covering like 40 vertical inches with each step. Obviously this talent renders
switchbacks completely necessary, so…there are none. If you want to get to the
top of the mountain, you do just that—walk up. STRAIGHT up, your ankle joints
will flex into contortions you never dreamed possible, if it’s a true Palawano
trail. 4-there is a height limit, which I indisputably exceed. Every day, I experience
“Absalom moments” when vines rake my face and branches ensnare my hair.
Now that I’ve established a picture of a Palawano trail in
your mind, let’s get on with the variables.
·
On footwear:
-Tiked lang (barefoot): Although my feet are Palawano
tough, they’re not Palawano flexible. The dexterity of their feet defies
all the things I thought I knew about kinesiology. While it’s possible for them to slide
down a mountain and nonchalantly grab rocks and roots with their toes while
balancing a 50-kilo rice sack on their heads, I come from lineage that has
incarcerated their feet for too many generations, and my toes, when
faced with such a treacherous obstacle course are like…”kaya sewd kay”. Hence I
only walk tiked lang when it’s bad weather for cleats and bad weather for
Duralites.
-Cleats: Every time I lace them up, it saddens my heart—cleats
are decidedly UNpalawano, and my feet always protest at the confinement. On
days when the trail is like one of those moving walkway things at the
airport-but a moving walkway of mud, sticks, and leaves travelling downhill at
approximately 30mph—they are indispensable; without them, there’d be no hope of
ever matching Palawano pace. Downsides: they are deadly on wet rocks, and if
you hike in them frequently you get this delusion that you are actually
learning how to hike. This delusion will prove lethal the next time you wear
Duralites.
-Duralites: for the unenlightened: Duralite:
flipflop = Tacoma: Civic. They’re tough little shoes that have this annoying
tendency of being entirely useless unless you need to kill a snake or have the
urge to play a spontaneous game of shakoy, or you need a seat. And even then, because
you wear were wearing Duralites, your rump is probably so muddy anyway that
this application is vestigial. When traveling downhill with Duralites, my
initial impression is that I’m skiing, but without snow OR skis. And then, inevitably,
the Duralitie will hit a bump, and because my feet are so narrow, they’ll keep
sliding right on through the Duralitie, until by big toe hits the next bump. By
then, the Duralitie is mid-shin, and my ibas are doubled over laughing.
·
On conditions.
-Dry: Although it appears benign, dry is deceivingly
undesirable. First, the ground hurts more when you fall. Secondly, your cleats
don’t dig in; finally agis-best likened to thousands of marble-sized rocks-accumulates,
and formerly trusty footholds become dislodged. And that’s when you
learn experientially of course, how hard the ground is.
-Muddy (as in aqueous): muddy is why I have a designated
hiking skirt; it’s also why said skirt has metamorphosized from white to
varying shades of brown. The skirt isn’t the only thing to undergo significant
pigment alteration, either. Some days, I shave my calves just so that I don’t
forget that I am, indeed, white.
