Oct. 30, 1998, 3 p.m., Royal Ferry

Buahan (lanzones) land, Camiguin of several volcanoes, the sharp sundang (bolo, machete) and the legendary tawiki (whale shark), here I come, a reluctant tourist.

I am far from being an islomane (''crazy about islands,'' word coined by British novelist Lawrence Durrell). Seven calls in seven days from the chair of Barangay Bonbon in Catarman, Camiguin, where they say the lanzones are the island's sweetest, most translucent and with the smallest of seeds, dragged me into this appointment.

Barangay chair Marvie Rodriguez invited me to witness the Dawit-dawitan ta Buahan, a ritual fest of harvest and thanksgiving, a prelude to the more exuberant Lanzones Festival.

The catamaran is oven-hot. Help, we're oxygen-depleted, like the fish in algae-choked Western Macajalar Bay! Good, I brought Mary Dalton's book of poetry: ''The Time of Icicles.'' Ah, Newfoundland's Mary Dalton, looking saintly and intelligent as my mother's lithograph of the Mother of Perpetual Help.

Here, her words feel like oxygen to the spirit. Like these lines from ''Song for the Dandelion'':

''...Because if cheers waste spaces.
Because it ignores orders.
Because it is a wanderer.
Because it sings in this acid soil.
...Because it is invincible.''

Oct. 31, 2 a.m., Caves Beach Resort, Agoho, Mambajao

From the other huts, a chorus of snores. Beyond, the surf's dawn lullaby. And yet, I remain awake, awaiting to hear other gifts of sounds: cicadas, frogs, gekko, bats.

Yesterday, my first ''tourist site:'' Romualdo's Kingdom. A sprawling house on reclaimed land. A hybrid between a government hospital and an engineering office. An unfinished swimming pool.

The Romualdos are the island's new virtual rulers: Pedro is the governor and his son, Jesus Jardin, is the congressman.

The Manila journalist riding in the car with us asked the guide, ''What is the main livelihood of the people here?'' The native's instant reply: ''Politics.''

7 p.m.

Seahawk, the hoary banca, took us halfway around Camiguin on an early morning cruise. Our guide told us stories of lore and legend, politics and people. His memory is a library of Camiguin history in the last three decades. That multimillion-peso resort was stopped by politics . . . by those craggy cliffs are caves . . . in 1974, Imelda took our sugar-fine sand . . .

What looked like a spacecraft launching pad was actually, on closer look, just an unfinished giant cross, marking the cemetery which glided to sea during a volcanic eruption in 1951. A coral reef had grown over the sunken burial grounds, abundant with blue and orange starfish.

The festival site was by the grounds of the stone ruins of the half-buried Guiob Church. But no place would have been more appropriate than this former church.

Intuitively, Dawit-dawitan is reclaiming not only these ruins of coral rock or ritual alone, but a faith and consciousness older than the advent of Christianity in the islander's mind.

A lanzones grove on harvest day gathers the neighborhood; each child and adult gleaning fruits, stories, sights. The grove we visited had about 50 trees. Ripened bunches of lanzones drooped from its branches and trunks. The pickers climbed the trees, took the fruits by the bunches, placed them in baskets which, in turn, were lowered on a rope.

A packer by every tree transferred the fruits from baskets into wooden boxes. Hundreds of black ants which had taken residence among the ripe fruits also hitched a ride to the market.

Our car broke down on the way back to the festival grounds and stopped right by Vulkaan Resort. The buildings were half-finished, the crafted pools were algae-filled. What really happened to have sent its investors packing?

The street dancing was forlorn. Little girls dressed as band majorettes and wearing heavy white boots longer than their legs looked tortured as they marched along the highway. But there was one singular girl whose every move was an offering to the Ancient but Living Spirits of Fruits and Volcanoes.

Nov. 1, 9:30 a.m., Royal Ferry

We're on the first ferry out. Up the gangplank, I saw the Vulkaan billboard with the slogan, ''Simply the best.''

Tourism Director Dorothy Pabayo saw me taking a last glance at the giant folk art, ''Oh, they still had that. That should be taken down now.''

I had just spilled coffee on my Mary Dalton book. The smear is on the page with the poem, ''Lies to Tell the Tourists:''

...That fish is fresh, caught by that strapping young feller
With not a care to worry him--he loves the sea
...The children playing on the crooked streets--so friendly
So quaint--
are fed on the milk and honey of our simple island kindness...