The House beyond the Talahib Grass
The path that I had taken through the tall talahib grass (Saccharum spontaneum) was as visible as any trail in a fresh snowfall. We are running against time. The July post-summer midday sun is upon us. The sweet scent of the talahib grass refreshes the air but my body sweat says different. The fifteen-minute walk wasn't exactly arduous. I am entertained by Kuya Paulo Cauayan and immediately set the interview as we glide through the dancing grasses. It was a theatrical scene laid out in an expansive stage. The burst of shades of green gradually transitions from the plains jugged up to the mountains around us. Kabalatanaw stream. The nearly-jewel blue stream of Kabalatanaw reminds us that we're near our destination yet the promised house is nowhere to be found. Still grasses. "A few more streams, perhaps? or five more mountain ranges?", I mentally whispered as I ask Kuya Paulo more questions. The concept of walking distance to the Mangyan Iraya must be f