My grandparents grew up in a quaint little barrio called Minaulon, quietly tucked along the coast of Lanao del Norte. As next-door neighbors, they’d known each other for as long as they could remember. I found out during a speech my Lola gave at my late Lolo’s wake that they had started “going steady” when they were just 11 or 12 years old. Apparently, playground crushes were serious business back then. By the time Lolo passed, they had been married for over 60 years. In the early years of their marriage, they moved around constantly because of Lolo’s job, much to Lola’s chagrin, who often reminded Lolo she hadn’t signed up to be a nomad. To cut the story short, they eventually settled in Koronadal (colloquially called Marbel), where I was born and raised many years later.
Long before I was born, my grandparents—along with my late great-grandparents and a whole caravan of relatives—would make the long, winding journey back to Minaulon every May, just in time for the feast of San Isidro Labrador, the beloved patron saint of the barrio. I’ve grown up hearing the most enchanting stories about those homecomings; how they would stop by some random roadside to eat the food prepared at dawn for breakfast and lunch; how, when they arrived, the air smelled of sea breeze and lechon; how the nights were lit with laughter, lanterns, and plenty of drinking; and how, for a few precious days, it felt like the whole family had found its way back home. I myself would experience this as a young child.
My first vivid memory of traveling to Minaulon was when I was about nine. After Lolo retired from his job as a geodetic engineer with the DENR, my grandparents decided to buy a new family car using a portion of his retirement package—a blue Toyota Tamaraw FX, which was quite popular back then. We took it for the long drive to Minaulon. I remember riding in the very back seat with my cousin Jef, both of us wide-eyed and restless.
The journey felt endless. There were no shorter or safer alternatives then, so we had to go the long way, via Buda in Davao, then traversing through the provinces of Bukidnon, Cagayan de Oro, and Misamis Oriental before finally reaching Iligan, the city closest to Minaulon. I remember the thrill of catching sight of the ocean, a feeling that has never quite left me. I remember being fascinated by Maria Cristina Falls, having just learned about it in my Sibika at Kultura class. And I remember the joy of being welcomed by relatives, beaming with pride as they commented on how much I’d grown—though, to be honest, I’m not sure there was all that much to be proud of at that point.
It wasn’t my first trip there—I’ve seen photos from when I was as young as three. Apparently, Lolo used to toss me into the ocean because I couldn’t get enough of the water, or so recounted Kuya Roel, Lolo’s nephew, when we caught up recently. And it certainly wasn’t my last. I went back several times as a teenager during summer breaks in high school, again as a young adult after graduating from college, and even a few more times in my thirties—still wide-eyed, though perhaps not quite as restless. The journey isn’t as long as it used to with new highways being built. What used to be a fifteen hour journey, can be had in seven to eight hours passing through the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao (BARMM) along the provinces of Sultan Kudarat, Maguindanao, Lanao Del Sur before finally reaching Lanao Del Norte.
Every relative I know refers to going to Minaulon as “coming home.” Some of them, like me, never actually lived there, yet our strong sense of attachment to our roots makes it feel as though we never truly left. Like me, they each have their own stories to tell about the place.
What I love most about coming home to Minaulon is being able to enjoy the sea in all its unadulterated beauty. My relatives’ backyards open up quite literally to the wide expanse of the ocean. But even more than that, what I treasure is the sense of community. In a small barrio like that, everyone treats each other like family. In fact, practically everyone is related in some way. I have kin on both sides of my grandparents’ families, and I always looked forward to planning little escapades with my cousins and friends—like bringing sinugba, kinilaw, and bahaw out to sea the day after fiesta, or going for a swim at the Timoga pools, known for their cool, fresh spring water.
Much of the barrio has retained its charm, but in recent years, I’ve noticed that the celebrations have become a little more subdued. Some traditions still remain, but there’s a quiet sense that the tides have begun to shift. More people, cousins and friends included, have left in search of greener pastures, and perhaps the barrio, too, is slowly catching up with the modern world. I can’t help but wonder what it will look like in the years to come.
On our most recent trip, we had to make some convincing pleas to get Lola to come along. It just wouldn’t be the same without her. She’s 88 now, and understandably not too keen on making the long journey. But when we asked if she’d consider doing it again, we were genuinely surprised to hear her say that maybe she would perhaps in a couple of years. She said it still made her heart happy to see Lolo’s sisters and so many other relatives, and all of us traveling together.
Looking back, I realize that my love for road trips and exploration really began with those yearly journeys to Minaulon. I owe so much to my grandparents for giving me that rich experience, for showing me what it means to travel not just across distance, but through memory, tradition, and a deep sense of home.
