The approach to the Taktak Waterfall was an extremely promising one. A set of gentle, well-maintained concrete staircase, covered by lush green tropical foliage followed a large sign that welcomes to the "Hinulugang Taktak National Park." As visitors descended the stairs, the sound of falling waters became louder and louder, and winds carried the moisture into the air, giving the entire park a moist coolness that was unlike any weather one would expect in a hot tropical summer. But as one continue to follow the stairs down toward the origins of the falling water...something was amiss.
The stench, the horrible stench began to fill the air, even as the visitor finally saw the majestic sight of the 30-meter high waterfall in its full watery glory after a short burst of monsoon rain. The cesspool, formed by the falling water, and the river it continued as, was dark brown and strewn with garbage. Plastic bottles and cardboard fell together with the water, itself contaminated from various chemical ingredients from the bustling Antipolo city a couple of kilometers upstream. One can only be thankful that pictures of the waterfall does not reek of the same foul odor.
Simply embarrassing as it is for a "National Park" (which, by the way, was the second most recommended local sight according to Antipolo City website), the local government does seem to have big plans for the place. Next to the welcome sign right after entering the enclosed compound, a small visitor's center (a concrete shack, actually) detailed the plans for turning the place into a ecological family resort of some sort. Under construction was family lodges, picnic huts, basketball courts, in addition to a massive swimming pool and clean large changing room next to the brown river.
The massive gap between the putrid reality and spiffy ambitions leaves visitors scratching their heads. Does the government seriously expect any visitors here for any reason other than holding their noses for a few great shots of the beautiful-looking waterfall? Or better question yet, does it really expect investment into family resort-building to halt the entire city from decades-long habit of throwing her refuse into the river upstream? For a first-time visitor dejected by the conditions of this small national park, the government's plan looks nothing but quixotic to the utmost.
But, to think about it another way, perhaps commercialization is the last and only chance the Taktak Falls have to part with its disgusting present. After all, its designation as a national park did not bring the necessary financial and human resources to make it a well-maintained natural sanctuary that people expect from a "national park" (as more or less expected from a largely absent public sector). The potential of massive returns on the investment is certainly still there. The author would bet that some rich family would be willing to pay a large sum for a private resort with a constant sight of waterfall.
Yet, if commercialization is the way to go, just turning over the tiny premises of the national park itself to private development may not be enough. In fact, the entire length of the river that lead up to the waterfall itself, along with its many tributaries, must also be turned over for privatization. The author is afraid that the local government, or even the national government, for that matter, has the political will or the capability to achieve such a feat. The powerful local family-based political-economic interests will surely oppose the high costs of clean-ups as well as treatment and rerouting of their dirty waters.
That is not to say that commercialization is the wrong way to go, however. Instead, the interest of commercialization must be expressed not as immediate means of generating profit (i.e. creating a high-end luxury eco-resort under the waterfall), but seen as a symbol of much more long-term, gradual re-directing, based on individual sacrifices, toward eco-tourism for an entire community. In a city such as Antipolo, which has an economy largely based on serving as a pilgrimage site and bedroom community for Metro Manila, such diversification should not very strong sense.
Indeed, such long-term justification may be the only way to bring together an entire community behind any political action for a massive river clean-up. One day, a clean river running through the middle of the city may bring vacationers, whose expenses will generate much more jobs than a hundred dirty local workshops and sari-sari stores. And without the basics of creating such political coordination for overall cleanliness, a hundred profit-minded investors building resorts will only be left with empty bank accounts and disappointments. It is time that the city starts to think big.
The stench, the horrible stench began to fill the air, even as the visitor finally saw the majestic sight of the 30-meter high waterfall in its full watery glory after a short burst of monsoon rain. The cesspool, formed by the falling water, and the river it continued as, was dark brown and strewn with garbage. Plastic bottles and cardboard fell together with the water, itself contaminated from various chemical ingredients from the bustling Antipolo city a couple of kilometers upstream. One can only be thankful that pictures of the waterfall does not reek of the same foul odor.
Simply embarrassing as it is for a "National Park" (which, by the way, was the second most recommended local sight according to Antipolo City website), the local government does seem to have big plans for the place. Next to the welcome sign right after entering the enclosed compound, a small visitor's center (a concrete shack, actually) detailed the plans for turning the place into a ecological family resort of some sort. Under construction was family lodges, picnic huts, basketball courts, in addition to a massive swimming pool and clean large changing room next to the brown river.
The massive gap between the putrid reality and spiffy ambitions leaves visitors scratching their heads. Does the government seriously expect any visitors here for any reason other than holding their noses for a few great shots of the beautiful-looking waterfall? Or better question yet, does it really expect investment into family resort-building to halt the entire city from decades-long habit of throwing her refuse into the river upstream? For a first-time visitor dejected by the conditions of this small national park, the government's plan looks nothing but quixotic to the utmost.
But, to think about it another way, perhaps commercialization is the last and only chance the Taktak Falls have to part with its disgusting present. After all, its designation as a national park did not bring the necessary financial and human resources to make it a well-maintained natural sanctuary that people expect from a "national park" (as more or less expected from a largely absent public sector). The potential of massive returns on the investment is certainly still there. The author would bet that some rich family would be willing to pay a large sum for a private resort with a constant sight of waterfall.
Yet, if commercialization is the way to go, just turning over the tiny premises of the national park itself to private development may not be enough. In fact, the entire length of the river that lead up to the waterfall itself, along with its many tributaries, must also be turned over for privatization. The author is afraid that the local government, or even the national government, for that matter, has the political will or the capability to achieve such a feat. The powerful local family-based political-economic interests will surely oppose the high costs of clean-ups as well as treatment and rerouting of their dirty waters.
That is not to say that commercialization is the wrong way to go, however. Instead, the interest of commercialization must be expressed not as immediate means of generating profit (i.e. creating a high-end luxury eco-resort under the waterfall), but seen as a symbol of much more long-term, gradual re-directing, based on individual sacrifices, toward eco-tourism for an entire community. In a city such as Antipolo, which has an economy largely based on serving as a pilgrimage site and bedroom community for Metro Manila, such diversification should not very strong sense.
Indeed, such long-term justification may be the only way to bring together an entire community behind any political action for a massive river clean-up. One day, a clean river running through the middle of the city may bring vacationers, whose expenses will generate much more jobs than a hundred dirty local workshops and sari-sari stores. And without the basics of creating such political coordination for overall cleanliness, a hundred profit-minded investors building resorts will only be left with empty bank accounts and disappointments. It is time that the city starts to think big.
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