It was my first time setting foot on Siquijor, and I arrived carrying the usual first-timer’s mix of curiosity and half-believed stories. What I didn’t expect was that the island would feel less like a destination and more like a quiet invitation – to slow down, to listen, and to see differently. Traveling with fellow academics last weekend, we found ourselves momentarily unburdened by lectures, deadlines, and syllabi, allowing Siquijor’s calm shores and gentle pace to do what it does best: enchant without trying.
The trip itself was a quiet celebration. We had come together to mark the College of Business Management and Accountancy’s recent achievement—- earning a cash prize after ranking second among colleges in the university with the highest number of research papers produced by faculty researchers and studies presented in international research conferences. It was a milestone born of rigor, deadlines, and long hours of work, made more meaningful by being acknowledged not in a formal hall, but on an island that seemed to insist on rest.
What struck me most in the days that followed was how the island refused to be hurried. Despite the steady influx of local and foreign tourists, Siquijor’s rhythm remained unchanged, unapologetically slow, almost protective of its own pace. Tricycles moved without urgency, conversations unfolded without interruption, and the locals went about their day with a calm assurance that suggested they were not performing leisure for visitors, but simply living it. There was no sense of pressure to rush, no visible anxiety to keep up with the expectations of tourism; instead, the island seemed to quietly remind everyone who arrived that time here bends to a different will.
And so, we yielded to the island’s slow rhythm, taking in the calm and easy flow of days that asked for nothing more than presence. Without the need to account for time by the hour or the itinerary, our conversations lingered longer, our silences felt fuller, and even the simplest moments, such as shared meals, unplanned steps, quiet walks by the sea, took on a gentle significance. For a group long accustomed to deadlines and deliberations, Siquijor offered a rare kind of respite: not an escape from thinking, but a space where thinking could finally breathe.
True to any first encounter with a place as storied as Siquijor, we also made sure to experience what the island is most known for. And yet, even these must-see moments unfolded without haste. At Pitogo Cliff, we paused longer than planned, taking photographs at the edge of a breathtaking landscape where the beauty lay precisely in its imperfection—-the rugged curve of the cliff, the uneven ridge shaped by time, and the calm, deep blue-green waters stretching endlessly below. From a vertigo-inducing height, our images and videos were captured by drone cameras, revealing a perspective that left us momentarily speechless, not from thrill alone but from awe at how nature, in all its rawness, needed no embellishment.
Just before reaching the cliff, we made an unplanned but memorable stop for charcoal ice cream, one of those small curiosities you encounter when you are no longer rushing. Out of curiosity, I asked the vendor what the real flavor was, and she leaned in, almost conspiratorial, to whisper that it was actually mangosteen. Still, I took my first bite, I couldn’t shake the amusing illusion that I was eating charcoal itself (dark, inky, and visually defiant of its sweetness) even as the familiar tang of mangosteen gently unfolded on the palate. It was a playful reminder of how Siquijor delights in quiet contrasts, where nothing is quite what it first appears to be.
And then there was Cambugahay Falls, forever linked in popular memory to Anne Curtis’ now-viral “fairy walk,” a moment that propelled Siquijor even further into the social media spotlight. I did not go there to recreate that walk. Instead, I found myself gripping a rope swing, staring down at water said to be 21 feet deep. Hesitation crept in first—-the quiet fear of a misstep, of a bad fall, of hitting a hidden rock if I failed to execute the swing and plunge just right.
But courage, like momentum, builds when you finally decide to move. I let go and leapt into an adrenaline-pumpling swing and jump that turned into a plunge both terrifying and exhilarating. The water closed in around me; cool, sudden, and all-encompassing, washing away the doubt that had lingered seconds before. And then I did not only jump once. I did it twice. The second plunge came easier, freer, carried by a confidence I did not have moments earlier. In that brief moment beneath the surface, there was only weightlessness and wonder. It was a reminder that sometimes the most unforgettable parts of travel begin where fear gives way to trust.
And every guest to the island should not miss the now-iconic broomstick ride on board Siquijor’s Silhig Airlines. One by one, we queued with barely contained excitement, patiently waiting for our turn to hop onto a broomstick with a thick, heavy molave handle. Executing the jump was more challenging than it looked—balancing with only one hand gripping the broomstick, keeping it steady while resisting the instinct to wobble, and extending the other hand forward as if confidently pointing toward an imagined destination. It was playful, absurd, and undeniably fun.
After landing—laughing and slightly breathless, we made our way to the nearby bar, where we were served ice-cold, freshly opened buko juice, refreshed and still smiling, reminded once again that in Siquijor, even the simplest moments feel thoughtfully unhurried.
On our last evening on the island, we gathered over generous platters of lechon kawali, fresh seafood, pork sinigang, Bicol Express, chicken finders, pancit canton, adobo, and bowls of tropical fruits at LCafé in San Juan. Shared over laughter and unhurried conversation with colleagues that became family, the meal felt like a fitting conclusion to our time in Siquijor—simple, abundant, and deeply satisfying. It was a good end to a quick escape from academic schedules and city rhythms, a short but sweet getaway that reminded us how restorative it can be to step away, even briefly, and allow a place to leave its quiet mark.*
