ON my first trip to the United States, I took a tourist bus in New York City and understood why it was described as a concrete jungle in some books I had read. In lieu of trees, there were skyscrapers, growing beside each other, casting shadows on the streets and in some areas, blocking the flow of air. Among the concrete trees, the Ritz Carlton Hotel alongside Central Park looked like the tallest from the window of that bus.
In the 1980s, I lived in the Sierra Madre. The land was almost impassable during the monsoon seasons, the only means of transportation were passenger jeepneys equipped with winches that could pull out the vehicle from quagmires. Years later, I found out that I was living in a place described by William Pomeroy, in his book "The Forest." A Dumagat-Remontado used to visit me for his regular supply of firewater called Ginebra San Miguel.
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