A Journey to Biringan: A Samar Tale

Carlo’s motorcycle growled softly as it cut through the narrow highway winding along the coast of Samar. The humid air was thick with the scent of saltwater and the occasional waft of freshly cut grass from the roadside. Above him, the sky was a pale gray, threatening rain. He adjusted the strap of his camera bag slung over his shoulder, his mind already framing potential shots of the rugged landscape. He was nearing the halfway mark of his journey from Calbayog to Catarman when his stomach growled. Spotting a roadside vendor under the shade of a large narra tree, he pulled over. The old woman greeted him with a toothy smile, her stall laden with woven baskets, dried fish, and local delicacies wrapped in banana leaves. “Kaon na, hijo,” she said, pushing a small plate of steaming suman toward him. Carlo thanked her, settling on a wooden bench under the tree. As he ate, he struck up a conversation about his travels. The old woman’s face lit up when he mentioned his interest in local folklore. “Have you heard of Biringan?” she asked, her tone shifting from casual to conspiratorial. Carlo smirked. “The invisible city? The one with the engkanto? Yeah, I’ve heard the stories.” Her expression turned serious, her cloudy eyes narrowing. “It’s not just a story. People have seen it. Some have gone and never returned.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “It’s not a place you find. It finds you.” He brushed off her warning with a polite laugh, finished his meal, and thanked her. Yet as he got back on his motorcycle, her words lingered.