I left that day without a story and never saw Manda Elizalde again. The Tasaday people disappeared back into the rain forest, along with the fickle public's curiosity about them. Elizalde's death brought it all back to me, opening up a Pandora's box of rich, intoxicating material. My brain roiled with questions, more complicated and unanswerable than the ones I had attempted to ask Elizalde so many years ago. Why was he drawn to that jungle in the first place? What had he really been searching for and why did I find it so compelling? Proving or disproving the Tasaday myth was not my main concern. Elizalde and his lost tribe of forest dwellers were merely catalysts for my explorations, in Dream Jungle, into the myths of history, cultural identity and the secrets buried within my own mongrel family. Filipino, Spanish, Irish-American, German, Chinese. The women were vain, restless, mixed-blood beauties. The men were also vain, brooding and arrogant, often on the run from someone or something. We were a fatalistic bunch, our own lost tribe, prone to fits of melancholy and wild exuberance. Right at home in the hybrid, fatalistic, anything-is-possible Philippines.

The ghosts were dancing in my head, clamoring to be heard, but something was lacking in my new book. A sense of place, perhaps. I needed to go back, to once again see, hear, smell and feel the Philippines up close for myself. I needed to go to Mindanao, to the southernmost tip of the archipelago, where I had never been. My visits were once happy and frequent. Even during the darkest days of the Marcos regime, being with family and seeing old friends energized and inspired me. But things were different now. "Home" had become fraught with anxiety and sorrow. Too many people in my family were dead—both sets of grandparents, several beloved aunts and uncles, my parents, and most recently, my middle brother. Other family members had been driven out by the wretched economy and the volatile political situation. There were still cousins, a few young nieces and nephews left, but I was a stranger to them. Manila, lush tropical oasis of my childhood, was no longer lush or so welcoming. It was a burial ground.

Being in Manila is like being on a constant coke high or in the grip of a fever. You find yourself exhausted yet stimulated, eager for the next shocking encounter. Street kids run in packs, sniff glue openly, beg for change. A homeless family takes a siesta in the hollow of a giant banyan tree. Broken strips of pavement with weeds sprouting through the cracks run alongside streets—sidewalks are still a rarity. So many people coming and going—you can't afford to lollygag or daydream. There are sudden jolts of beauty amid all this dizzying chaos. A lone girl, possibly insane and quite beautiful (with that gone look in her eyes), walks blithely into traffic. She is barefoot, dressed in a grubby oversized T shirt. She rubs her tummy, blissful. Crazy girl. Loca-loca. I stay rooted to my sliver of concrete, transfixed by the sight of her. Crazy girl sucks on Milo, one of those sugary snack drinks that come in foil with a little straw. The foil is flat. Crazy Girl has sucked it dry, but she's oblivious, sucking on air with a smile on her pretty face. How old is she? 10? 16? 29? As jeepneys, buses and cars careen and swerve around her, Crazy Girl floats high above the traffic and disappears, indifferent and serene.

Barbershop: EDGAR SCISSORHANDS.

Tailor's shop: ELIZABETH TAILORING.

Seafood stand: FISH BE WITH YOU.

Fast-food joint: NACHO FAST.

Dance club: CHIX O'CLOCK.

Florist shop: PETAL ATTRACTION.

Aristocrat Restaurant: YOU ARE WELCOME. YOUR GUN IS NOT.

After a couple of days spent decompressing, I head down to Cotabato del Sur, Mindanao, with writer Zack Linmark and actress Ching Valdes-Aran, good friends and fellow U.S. expats who happen to be in Manila to visit family. None of us have been so far south. The airplane trip is mercifully short and uneventful. I stare out the cabin window at the white nothing of vaporous clouds, wondering if I have made some huge mistake. Sure, I've done the logical things: hired a combination interpreter-guide, rented a jeepney, brought the expected gear—camera, tape recorder, waterproof hiking boots. But nothing's been actually planned. Are we really going to attempt to hike up into those dense, jungly, leech-infested mountains inhabited by the Tasaday and find ... what, exactly?

Neal Oshima, a photographer and friend from the States who has lived in Manila since the 1970s, has arranged for Maria Todi Wanan, a Tboli dancer, interpreter and cultural activist, to act as our fixer and guide. The locals stare as we get into the big, bright red jeepney that I have rented. The roads up the mountains are precarious, rutted, winding—sometimes not roads at all. It gets wilder and more beautiful as the jeepney climbs higher into the mountains. People clamber on board. It's as if they knew we were coming and have been patiently waiting. There's a very old, bent woman chewing betel and a family with young children. The dust kicks up, blowing into our eyes and mouths. We do as the locals do—quickly covering our heads with scarves and pieces of cloth. Zack grins at me. This is the other Philippines. Untainted. Non-English speaking. The real Philippines. Which is a nostalgic cliché, romantic bullshit, I know—yet I surrender to its spell. I am suddenly deeply moved and deeply happy. It is late afternoon by the time we reach the Punta Isla resort, a picturesque enclave of rustic cottages overlooking the even more picturesque Lake Sebu. The resort has seen better days. We are its only customers. Maria tells us that very early the next morning we are going to a mountain village called Luhib for "market day." "Everyone will be there," Maria says. "They come down from the mountains. Maybe you'll find what you need to find." And I do.

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