It was supposed to be the grandest map of the Philippines, but Jose Rizal never completed it.

Instead, it became the largest map of Mindanao, its breathtaking scale best appreciated from the heights of the church tower casting shadows over it. I had the privilege of climbing that tower with colleagues for a Rizal documentary we produced in Dapitan, where he accomplished many things during his exile. His first project there was this map, with its jagged coastlines carved into mounds of earth, a secular creation placed directly in front of Saint James Church — a space typically reserved for religious icons.

I can imagine the impact it had on Dapitan's residents, who were seeing for the first time where their small, remote community fit into the vast expanse of Mindanao. One can easily speculate that this laborious enterprise was also an unspoken, integral part of Rizal’s magnificent political project of building a new nation. 

By then, Rizal had been excommunicated by the church for writing his subversive novels. The massive relief map was a work of collaboration with Rizal’s priest-friend, Fr. Francisco Sanchez, who somehow secured its prime location. That meant that their opus, without any religious significance whatsoever, competed with the church for the attention of the faithful. Was Rizal, in today’s parlance, trolling the friars who were persecuting him? 

Even as my team and I were focused on documenting this unique masterpiece, it was also a quiet hallelujah moment in my long love affair with maps. 

I have a collection of paper maps at home, comprising a collage of memories when navigation was a craft, not an app. I fondly recall the childhood sensation of tracing our route with my fingers on an unfolded map that crowded our car as my dad drove us through unfamiliar territory on family road trips. 

Among those relics are the topographic maps that accompanied me on solo hikes through the Scottish Highlands in the early 1990s. I was captivated by the intricate detail of these maps, which depicted the terrain with remarkable accuracy even in vast, uninhabited regions. The precision and artistry of these maps not only helped me find gentler routes but also deepened my appreciation for the natural world's complexity and beauty.

Then there’s the majestically ornate and detailed Murillo-Velarde map of the Philippines of 1734. It’s not only the crown jewel of colonial cartography but a pivotal historical document.

Its precise inclusion of disputed maritime features within Philippine territory has been a powerful refutation of China’s recent claims over the same.

I have a fading copy of this map hanging at the entrance of my house, a silent act of resistance to efforts of some leaders to make us forget.

My own dream map was a playful vision of the Philippines as an archipelago not of islands but of leaves of native trees and plants, an homage to the nation’s biodiversity. 

I even had a clean white wall at home reserved for such a fantasy project. It would be a mural that guests could gaze at to educate themselves on how to identify both islands and leaves. 

As someone without an artistic background, I began to think this would just be another fanciful notion trapped in my imagination. That is, until I received a surprise message from an idealistic group of young artists from the nearby town of Ibaan, Batangas.

They called themselves Project Barako, a name chosen in honor of their Batangueño roots, and bonded over their love for art, culture and local history. 

To my delight, they offered to help bring my dream map to life. 

A few days ago, they arrived brimming with energy and bearing bags full of art supplies. While working on the mural, they even did an art workshop for local children, teaching them how to create paint from used coffee grounds — an inspired, low-cost medium that spoke to both creativity and sustainability.

We went leaf-hunting together, gathering specimens with striking shapes: tibatib, anahaw, fishtail palm, giant staghorns and other ferns, alocasias, begonias, aglaonemas, and more. These leaves, each with its own distinct form and texture, became the "islands" of our archipelago.

The finished mural was endearingly whimsical, yet precise in its own way. Like all the best maps, it was rich in detail, not of coastlines or elevations, but of botanical patterns, lovingly observed and faithfully drawn from real leaves gathered in my garden. No one artist could claim credit as eight youths aged 19 to 26 took part, with each assigned their own leaves — a true collective effort by Gen Zs who were focused on their tasks and rarely looked at their phones. 

They surprised me with their own quirky vision: Palawan depicted as an elegant ladder fern, a stray staghorn leaf embodying the Zamboanga Peninsula, and even a dragonfly representing the Polillo Islands, hovering next to a southern Tagalog shown as a clump of barako coffee leaves adorned with berries — all in a reimagined Philippines that celebrates our living heritage.

I like to think that even the mild-mannered José Rizal, the original Filipino mapmaker of the imagination, would have whooped in approval.