8:25 a.m. The fog is still heavy on the slopes of Mt. Makiling. Somewhere deep in the forest, Maria wakes to the sound of Los Baños stirring below. It’s August—Buwan ng Wika—and the morning air is already thick with the sound of marching drums and the faint chanting of teenage students practicing their poems.
She has spent a lifetime as a ghost story told around campfires or a name printed in Tagalog textbooks. But today, she’s restless. She wants to see how the people who kept her legend alive actually live in the modern world. She picks up the hem of her white dress and starts down the trail, her feet brushing through the wet undergrowth.
As she leaves the deep quiet of the woods behind, the town waits just past the trees.
8:30 a.m. Before leaving the forest, Maria stops at the riverbank. She kneels and splashes the freezing water over her face and hands, rinsing off the damp mountain soil. It’s her ritual to ground herself before she has to deal with the noise and chaos of people.
To her, water and words have always felt the same. Neither one ever stays still; they both flow, carving out new paths and connecting the high peaks to the valleys below. As she watches the current rush past, she wonders how much the language in the town has changed since she last listened. She’s preparing herself to wade into a different kind of stream—one made of slang, new expressions, and modern voices.
9:14 a.m. Maria reaches the gates of the UPLB Makiling Botanical Gardens. Here, the forest feels different. It isn’t the wild, tangled mess she knows. It’s organized. Every tree she passes has a metal plaque nailed to its trunk, and the flowers are grouped in neat, intentional patches. She recognizes these plants—they used to grow wherever they pleased on her slopes—but here, they’ve been lined up and labeled.
It’s nature with a set of rules. It reminds her of the way the townspeople talk now. Their words, which used to be as unpredictable as the mountain, have been gathered into dictionaries and grammar books. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just as the forest was turned into a garden, the old Tagalog she remembers has been shaped into “Filipino.” It’s still the same soul, but it’s been tidied up and “schooled” to help a whole nation understand one another.
9:53 a.m. Maria walks out onto the wide lawn of Freedom Park. To blend in, she lets her shimmering mountain robes fade, trading them for a plain black t-shirt and jeans. She looks like just another student now, one more face in the small groups scattered across the grass.
Over on the football field, a group is practicing for a competition. She stands in the shade and watches them, listening to the way they shout their lines in unison. It’s a far cry from what she’s used to. These aren’t the hushed prayers of a lone hunter or the old songs the farmers sing in the forest. This is loud and sharp. It’s language as a performance, built for a stage and a crowd.
Even with the modern slang and the aggressive rhythm, she can still hear the familiar pulse of the words. The wika hasn’t changed at its core—it’s still just a way for these kids to find their place and stick together. She stays at the edge of the field, a goddess in a t-shirt, quietly relearning the way her people speak.
10:15 a.m. Further into the campus, Maria stops in front of a statue—a woman carved from stone, holding a water jar. She tilts her head, looking at the long, sculpted hair and the stiff, graceful pose. A small, amused smile tugs at her mouth. “So, this is what they think I look like?” she says. It’s strange to see herself through their eyes. The statue is beautiful, but it’s a version of her dreamed up by people who have never actually met her.
She looks away from the stone and notices the Buwan ng Wika banners flapping in the breeze nearby. They’re covered in slogans about honoring roots and protecting the national language. It hits her then: she is just like that water jar. For centuries, people have used her name to carry their stories, their values, and their history, passing her down from one generation to the next.
It’s a weird mix of pride and disconnect. She’s glad they haven’t forgotten her, but she realizes she’s become more of a symbol than a person to them. She’s a character in their poems and a figure in their plays, changing slightly with every person who tells her story. She isn’t just the lady of the mountain anymore—she’s whatever the language needs her to be.
10:44 a.m. Maria finds a shaded bench as the air turns humid. The clouds are darkening, hanging low over the campus like they’re about to break. In the distance, she sees the Oblation statue, arms spread wide. She feels a strange pull toward it. They’re both landmarks in their own way, symbols that people look to when they think about this land. But while that man in stone represents sacrifice for the country, she has always been about the life of the land itself—the water, the trees, and the silence of the forest.
A group of students walks past, their conversation a messy, fast-paced mix of English and Filipino. She listens to them laugh and argue, realizing that wika isn’t something that stays still. It’s not just a subject in a classroom; it’s the way these kids bridge the gap between where they came from and where they’re going. It’s the “glue” that keeps them connected, even when they’re talking about modern things she barely understands.
Sitting there, she feels a sense of relief. Her story hasn’t just been preserved in cold statues or old books. It’s alive in the way these people speak to one another.
11:23 a.m. Maria leaves the campus behind and walks down toward the town center. The quiet, leafy shade of UPLB quickly vanishes, replaced by the noise of Los Baños. It’s a sensory overload: tricycles darting through gaps in traffic, jeepney drivers shouting destinations, and the smell of street food and exhaust. This isn’t the carefully chosen language of a classroom, but the loud, fast talk of people just trying to get through their morning.
She catches scraps of conversation as she moves through the crowd. An old man haggling at a fruit stall speaks with that thick Southern Tagalog accent she remembers from centuries ago. A few feet away, a teenager on a phone swaps between English and Filipino so fast it sounds like a single language. She hears a boy call his girlfriend “Mahal,” then “Babe” a second later.
She realizes that wika isn’t something kept in a museum or a textbook. It’s out here in the heat, being stretched and reshaped every time someone asks for directions or shouts for a jeepney to stop. It’s rooted in the past, sure, but it’s moving just as fast as the traffic around her.
12:11 p.m. By noon, the heat is intense enough that Maria ducks into a modern, air-conditioned café to cool off. On the table in front of her is a matcha latte and a croissant topped with bright pink frosting. It’s a far cry from the wild berries or forest honey she once shared with the people on her slopes, but there’s something fascinating about it. She watches a girl at the next table spend a few minutes finding the perfect angle to photograph her coffee before even taking a sip.
In the old days, people left her fruit wrapped in banana leaves as a thank-you. Now, they “offer” their food to a screen first. She doesn’t find it insulting—just another way of telling a story. She realizes that tastes change just as much as words do. If her own legend has been twisted and reshaped over the centuries, it only makes sense that the local flavors would change too.
Still, as she takes a bite, she feels a small pang of nostalgia. She hopes that among all these colorful lattes and imported treats, there will always be a place for the saltiness of kesong puti or the warm, heavy sweetness of a fresh buko pie. Even in a world of filters and aesthetics, some things are worth keeping exactly as they are.
2:19 p.m. Maria leaves the calm of the café for the chaos of the Los Baños Public Market. The air is thick with the smell of salted fish, ripe mangoes, and damp pavement. Everywhere, vendors are shouting their calls—“Gulay, dito na!” and “Buko pie, mainit pa!”—creating a loud, overlapping rhythm that fills the narrow aisles.
It’s a world away from the neat, labeled rows of the botanical garden. Here, language is stripped down to its most basic, honest form. It’s not for poems or academic lectures but for bargaining and making a living. Every “psst” and every price haggle is a performance, a way for people to connect in the middle of the rush.
Standing in the crowd, Maria feels a different kind of connection. The produce on the stalls came from her mountain’s soil, and the voices shouting over the noise are the ones that have kept her name alive for centuries. She realizes that this noise is the true heartbeat of the town. This isn’t just wika as a school subject—it’s the messy, living way that people belong to each other.
3:46 p.m. Maria stops in front of the old municipal hall. The weathered wood and Spanish-era details look small and fragile compared to the glass-and-steel buildings going up elsewhere in town. Even though the local government has moved to a newer, shinier building, this place still feels heavy with history. You can almost hear the ghosts of old arguments, the shuffle of papers, and the formal Tagalog of town leaders from a century ago.
She leans against the railing, thinking about how many problems were solved—and started—within these walls. It’s where the town’s rules were written and where neighbors came to settle their grudges. It hits her that without a shared language, there wouldn’t even be a town to govern. No agreements, no laws, just people living side-by-side in silence.
The buildings change, and the politicians come and go, but the words they used to build this community are still here. Standing in the shadow of the old hall, Maria realizes that the way people speak to one another is the only thing that actually lasts. A roof might rot or a wall might crumble, but the stories and the laws remain.
4:37 p.m. The late afternoon sun is low, turning the cloudy sky into a deeper gray. Maria lets her human disguise fade. The black t-shirt and jeans dissolve, replaced by her true form—robes that catch the fading light like ripples on the lake. She can feel the heavy, humid noise of the town falling away, replaced by the cool, sharp air of the mountain.
She walks down to the edge of Laguna de Bay. The water is dead calm, a perfect mirror for Mt. Makiling standing tall in the distance. To the people in town, that peak is a landmark or a silhouette on a postcard, but to her, it’s just home. It’s the place that has kept her safe while the world below changed from forest to stone and steel.
She stands at the shoreline for a long time, watching the light slowly fade. The shouting vendors, the student poets, and the modern cafés are all behind her now. She’s seen how her people live and heard the new ways they speak her name. She’s satisfied. As the first shadows of evening stretch across the water, she turns away from the town and begins the long walk back into the trees.
5:55 p.m. The last of the light is almost gone. Maria feels the mountain’s cold air finally reach down to meet her, and she prepares to head back into the deep woods. She isn’t leaving empty-handed, though, because she’s taking the day’s voices with her. She realizes now that wika isn’t something that can be lost or broken. It just changes its shape, much like the shadows on the mountain slopes at dusk.
She steps into the thick brush, and her white dress is swallowed by the dark. She’s gone, but only from sight. As long as a student in the park recites a poem, or a vendor at the market shouts a price, or a child hears a story before bed, she’s still there. The language of her people is the breath that keeps her legend alive.
Modeled by Jolyn Reyes
Los Baños, Laguna Travel Basics
Timing
- Los Baños is a year-round destination, but it shines best in the dry months (December to May) when the lake and mountain views are clearest.
- August can be rainy, but also the best time if you want to catch cultural events tied to language and heritage, during Buwan ng Wika. During this time, schools and communities highlight Filipino language, art, and history.
Access
- From Manila, take a bus in Buendia, Pasay, bound for Sta. Cruz. Alight at Los Baños Crossing. One-way fare costs around PHP 175. Travel time is about 2–3 hours depending on traffic.
- If driving, take SLEX and exit at Calamba, then follow the National Highway towards Los Baños.
Transportation
- Getting around Los Baños depends a lot on whether you have your own vehicle or not. If you’re car-free, plan your stops strategically: bundle sights near each other to minimize tricycle costs and walking time.
- With a car: Having your own vehicle makes exploring much easier, especially on weekends. Jeepneys inside UP Los Baños (UPLB) are fewer because there aren’t as many students going to class. If you want to cover the campus and nearby sights without waiting, driving in is the most convenient option.
- Without a car:
- Inside UPLB: Tricycles are not allowed inside and can only take you up to the main gates. From there, it’s either a long uphill walk to places like the Botanical Gardens, or you’ll need to wait for one of the occasional jeeps.
- Outside to town: If you’re heading from campus to the town proper (like the market or lakeshore), tricycles are available but fares can be steep (around PHP 250 one way). It’s doable, but not budget-friendly if you’re hopping between several spots.
Food
- Food around UPLB is mostly student-oriented, meaning you’ll find plenty of cafés and casual eateries with budget-friendly meals. One standout is Wildbreads, a bakery-café just outside the university gates, along a street lined with cheap dining options catering mainly to students, so the vibe is laid-back and accessible. It’s known for fresh breads and pastries, and makes for a great stop if you’re after a light meal or coffee break before heading to the gardens or lake.
- Another popular spot near UPLB is Seoul Kitchen, offering hearty meals in a casual setting. It’s a favorite among students looking for comfort food that still feels a bit homey.
- Meisters Uncorked is a beer-and-burger joint known for its laid-back vibe and craft-inspired drinks. It’s where students and visitors alike come to unwind after a day of trekking or exploring.
Accommodation
- Los Baños may be known for its hot springs resorts, but if you’re here mainly for UPLB and the town proper, you’ll find a few reliable spots that are both convenient and comfortable.
- SEARCA Residence Hotel is a bit of a hidden gem, mainly serving conference delegates, researchers, and visiting scholars. They also take in regular guests when rooms are available. The location is inside the campus itself, so it’s the most convenient option if your focus is really UPLB or a trek up Mount Makiling. Rooms are simple but well-kept, and the rates are very reasonable compared to the hot spring resorts along the highway.
- Splash Mountain Resort Hotel is a long-time favorite in Los Baños, combining a hot spring resort with hotel-style accommodations. It’s close enough to UPLB but with pools to unwind in after a day of exploring.
- Located within Trace College, Trace Suites is a go-to for those who prefer a quieter, business-hotel feel. Rooms are clean and modern, and the location gives easy access to both UPLB and the town center.
The Tourist Gaze 