On the range: The Tamaraw and Rangers of Iglit-Baco

“Pasensiya na po. Hindi na ako nakatigil sa Manila. Kailangan na kasi bumalik sa taas. Malapit na ang bilang. Sa susunod na lang po.”

The text message on my phone from Rommel, a ranger I had spent a few days with in the hinterlands of Iglit-Baco National Park in Mindoro, was forthright. We would not have a chance for a reunion. When we parted, I promised to buy him a meal should he ever find himself in Manila. So, upon learning he had been granted leave from his station to attend his son’s graduation in the Cordillera, I thought it would be the perfect occasion to catch up when he made his connecting commute from the capital. But apparently, there were other pressing matters. Still no rest for the weary.

I was disappointed because I would have liked to see him again. But I understood. The annual tamaraw count was about to start.

How could I fault a man so hell-bent on returning to his responsibilities, when it is precisely in such devotion and unwavering sense of purpose that the scales of fate tipped and fortunes changed?

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There was clarity from higher ground and a sense that there was something larger than yourself. From the vantage point of Magawang ridge, deep in the core of Mindoro, a raw and unbound country flourished in all directions — the jagged peaks of creased Mt. Iglit and the other mountains that ran across the national park, precipitous ravines, deep valleys, and deciduous forests yielding to swaths of open and far-reaching meadows. Grassland had colonized the landscape, suffusing pleats and slopes with rustic pasture. Patches of wild flowers thrived, but the prairies did not explode in vivid colors. Hues merely modulated from green to gold. As decaying light tangled with the long stalks of grass and dusk’s shadows lengthened, a poignant aura of a presence hidden beneath the steppe became palpable. Other treasures were not in plain sight but unmistakable in the slowly moving silhouettes. There was more to the place than just the captivating landscape.

This ultimate frontier land with perfect grazing ranges was a refuge of wilderness where wild beasts strayed, where the last significant population of the critically endangered tamaraw — a local upland variety of the buffalo — held out.

Tragic how the numbers of this endemic species dwindled to just a few hundred, when 10,000 years back, these animals populated the entire island of Luzon. Disease, destruction of habitat, and hunting have radically depleted their count.

The open ranges of Iglit-Baco were the final strongholds. The prospects of the tamaraw’s survival hinged heavily not merely on the resilience of these animals, but on the protection accorded to their well-being and territory.

* * *

Our party spent the first night in a village near the entrance of Iglit-Baco National Park so we could start off early the following day. When daylight broke, we left the bustle of the community and its animated routine of shrieking children, snorting pigs, and lively homemaker banter and were on our way. Our ramble to Magawang followed a worn footpath through rivers and streams, odorous growth forests, and taxing inclines.

Our guides explained that rivers surged during the rainy season and crossings were tumultuous, requiring dangling from monkey bridges to cross over gushing currents. Fortunately, rainfall was light and we navigated across the waterways with ease.

Views were sparse in the initial stretch as we trudged inside the woodland. Occasionally, we would hear the rustling of leaves and the breaking of branches or catch a glimpse of retreating and scampering figures. The Mangyan, the reserved indigenous people that inhabited the park and subsisted on hunting and gathering, were about. Though some have interacted with outsiders, most have fiercely shunned contact, preferring to be left in peace. The Mangyan had left animal traps all over. Fortunately, we were not caught in any.

Past the ranger station where we took an extended stay for lunch and interaction with the wardens posted there, the final leg of our journey took us out of the jungle and into rolling highlands draped in grass. We pressed up on the steepening gradient, regularly stopping to peel limatik (leeches) off our skin and to catch our breath. As the day wore on and my strength receded, I started to question the urge that drove me to this quest.

What was the attraction of the tamaraw that I needed to see it first-hand? Why was I so fascinated with this crude creature? Truth be told, it was not magnificent as sailing eagles, regal as Bengal tigers, or ruggedly handsome as wolves. It resembled the rather mundane carabao. Save for the characteristic V-shaped horn and shorter tail, it was difficult to tell them apart. Its dark fur lacked sheen and was rather dull. Aesthetically, it did not evoke awed appreciation. I wondered if the tamaraw would have generated the same adulation had its numbers rivalled those of cats or dogs.

But the threat of extinction raised the stakes. Once the last one passes on, the loss would be permanent and irrevocable. Therein lay the romance and appeal.

I’ve always loved comeback stories. And find revival acts constantly inspiring. And the closer the ordeal was to the brink, the sweeter the redemption. How could I not root for the underdog tamaraw when the odds were seriously stacked against it? I felt my strength return.

The long journey ended at the camp at Magawang station, really just a simple hut and a viewing platform almost at the apex of a sheer rocky rise. Rommel, the ranger in residence, enthusiastically received us — his uninvited visitors — as though he’d been expecting us all along. Our gifts of liquor and cigarettes were delightfully accepted and genuinely appreciated. Then we toasted to friendship and munched on sun-dried and salted river eel that tasted like pork. Ours was a curious if not genuine fellowship, as if we had known each other for years.

The best times for viewing tamaraw were early morning and late afternoon when the animals moved out of concealment to graze in the open fields. From the viewing ridge, Rommel pointed them out as they slipped in and out of the tall grass right for cutting. Observing wildlife from afar was interesting though a bit impersonal. The distance was just too great.

In between viewing sessions, there was an eternity for everything. I literally followed Rommel around as he went about his usual preoccupations, trying to learn what I could about life in the backcountry. He didn’t mind my tagging along, he was eager for conversation himself. Deprived of visitors, he sought human interaction and cherished news from the outside world. Understandably, loneliness was the main hazard of his trade.

Rommel is one of about 20 wardens of the Tamaraw Conservation Program (TCP) who patrol the Iglit-Baco National Park ensuring that there is no hunting in the protected areas and the animals are left alone. He often moves around the different zones, staying in other bunks and huts, covering much of the territory, interacting with the Mangyan folk to educate them about the negative effects of the “slash and burn” practice which destroys the tamaraw habitat. Wildlife protection takes many forms.

Relaxing on a bamboo bench on the viewing deck, I watched Rommel apply the final adjustments to a broom he had been putting together. When not venturing deep into the park, he worked on a few livelihood projects to supplement his income. His handiwork was almost done. He would sell the broom for P150 when he returned to town for his three days of rest after putting in a 22-day shift.

Though his face bore furrowed lines above his brow, Rommel was pleasant, not hard-edged like those exposed to constant battle. He was a man of industry. He was resourceful, augmenting his rations of dried fish with kamote leaves grown in personally tended gardens behind the hut. He created. He made-do. He did not destroy.

His is a life full of peril. Immediate medical assistance was not forthcoming if an accident were to befall him on the range. There was a wide disparity of weaponry to contend with in the fields. Game hunters and poachers came packed with rifles and shotguns and the protection of powerful people. Yet wardens enforced local laws armed merely with bolos and strong conviction, relishing the dirty work.

And for all the risks, Rommel took home a paltry P3,500 per month without insurance or additional compensation for danger. Why would anyone want to choose a life like this? Unless it was never about pesos and centavos to begin with. He’d been a ranger since the turn of the century.

“Kasiyahan ko talaga ang makitang dumadami ang tamaraw.” That was all he had to say, his voice betraying no hint of regret.

The park reveled in its solitude and remoteness. Getting here was steeped in inconvenience, requiring substantial effort. Yet, poachers and hunters managed to make it up here to hunt down the tamaraw and other wildlife. What does it say about the human condition when men go to such great lengths in the name of sport or greed? People were as senseless as they were brazenly irresponsible. If men were more conscientious, we wouldn’t need to police ourselves. How easy it was to lose belief in mankind.

* * *

Rommel and I crept ever so slowly down the slope, stopping behind a bush as soon as the heads of the tamaraw rose and their bodies stiffened. We had been crawling downhill the past 20 minutes or so, attempting to approach a pair of tamaraw wallowing in a mud hole in the valley below. The animals possessed a keen sense of smell and hearing, and were aware of every movement no matter how slight. It could be anything really that alerted them to our presence. Moments later, the animals relaxed. Relieved, we waited a bit before continuing. The incline gave way to a flat clearing where we were level with the tamaraw. The plan was to reach the edge of the valley floor to get the closest unhindered view of the pair. There was a good 50 meters between that point and the beasts; distance enough, we supposed, to deter them from charging in our direction.

If the tamaraw did attack, then it would be every man for himself. We would jump out of our skin, run for dear life, and pray our pursuers didn’t plow up the slopes to follow us. The forested ridge above seemed a few hundred meters away. I wondered if the brutes would chase us all the way to the top. More foolish plans have been conceived and ours seemed as decent as any. We descended cautiously, ever mindful of our movements. Progress was painstaking and arduous. More than once, the sound of loose rubble dispatched by a misplaced step forced us to stop. It was a slow dance with nature.

Then, just like that, the sky opened and emptied itself into the vast surroundings. And all visibility was gone.

Rain pooped my party.

* * *

Several weeks after Rommel’s initial communication, another message slipped itself into my phone.

“345 heads, sir. From 170 in 1998.” It was the official tamaraw count for 2013.

My mind returned to the range, where men like Rommel stood watch over the fields, dedicating their lives to something bigger than themselves, giving much to the cause even after all had gone terribly wrong.

345 heads. Not out of danger by any means. But inching away from extinction.

Cynicism was replaced by a newfound hope. And my fragile faith in humanity was restored.

(As of 2024, the estimated number of tamaraw is around 500 heads).

* * *

Project Larawan is an initiative of Gabriel “Gabby” Malvar, a documentary filmmaker, writer and photographer, whose narratives are nuanced with unique, inventive perspectives to provoke an inquisitive look at his favorite subject, the Philippines. “We travel far and wide, traversing great distances and seeking out new experiences in far-off lands only to realize that the real journey lies in human encounters, where we rediscover the compassion and humanity that is common in all of us. There should be no strangers really.” Become a part of Filipino identity every other Saturday on the DAILY TRIBUNE.