From Daegu to Cebu

Other ways to use your Nicotine Gum… and something about Christmas.

bear — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 01:02:00 GMT

Landing ourselves a mediocre lunch at “Bad Ladz” on the towns pretty bay; where we’re graciously invited to use the house phone in order to call our resort for a pick up (this is free of charge as it’s so bloody far away and a virtual impossibility without private transport).

Coral Cove resort is located in the north east corner of the island; there’s one road in through Sabang (a sleazy little tourist resort) which presents many sharp, steep turns through high palmed forestry.

A sombre man in his mid forties wanders over to our table. Going by the bright orange polo with the logo Coral Cove in big letters; we presume he’s a driver.

We walk in awkward silence to our transport; which appears to be a garishly painted jeepney; complete with a rather askew representation of Ariel, the Little Mermaid.

Throughout the journey; my one hope is that the resort itself is in better taste than the monstrosity that is this jeepney in all its colourful glory.

After ascending and descending some extremely abrupt inclines, we pull into what looks like a scene from the Mediterranean; white washed stone villa’s, pebbled paths leading to a rich blue bay complete with a modest sized speed boat. It’s very picture perfect. A little too perfect if you’ve just been watching The Prisoner back to back.

We haul ourselves up to reception, fully aware that if this place is in anyway unsuitable, we’ve got a long trek back (and will be homeless this Christmas).

As it happens, we are told that we’ve been upgraded from a standard room to a deluxe. I’m immediately suspicious (mainly because things like this never happen to us unless there’s an underlying reason which generally leads to a can of worms situation) and ask why to which I am told something about children and something about noise (so the exact thing we’ve just spent a year plotting our escape from). Hmmmm...

However, I quickly shove these reservations aside and eagerly inspect our new room; which turns out to be very nice indeed, if not a little too close to the restaurant and lounge area. Although, it does look out onto that sumptuous bay and is close enough to let the sea softly lull you sleep.

Very soon however, we realise the catch in the form of two very loud, very ginger German families; which it seems we have unceremoniously been sandwiched between. And, of course, what with that good old varnished oak flooring; we can hear each step thundering past our window every five minute. I suppose it was kind of the management to move us from the standard rooms below; as I expect they would have been a whole lot worse what with all the children running up and down on top of us.

We console ourselves with the prospect that the two families, as noisy as they are; might provide us with a little of that Christmas spirit we’ve so been lacking since spending the last year in the Orient.

On the morning of Christmas Eve; we’re confronted with a rosy cheeked German boy who kindly takes it upon himself to explain to us the inner workings of his transformer claw thingy. We’re also confronted with a very large karaoke system which the elder, more rotund ginger sibling seems completely enamoured with. His voice is disturbingly close to a young Michael Jackson; yet more squeaky, off key and annoying. We spend the morning listening to the brat go through Abba’s entire collection.

By early afternoon we contemplate suicide.

As soon as we hear the intro to “Nobody” we know we must escape. I swear that atrocious piece of (dare I say “music”) noise contains subliminal messages willing the world to fall under its garbled spell. But anyway, the German kid is now prancing about full throttle, wiggling his arse in a most disagreeable fashion and putting us off our rather poor example of a brewed coffee.

I wonder where their parents are; but expect they’re at the bottom of the ocean somewhere examining a shark’s bottom or some other activity that allows them to avoid their offspring.

We actually have the choice here of taking a long walk off a short pier; but decide against it. Instead we follow the quaint cobbled path that winds around the cove. As if I haven’t exhausted allusions to The Prisoner enough; I must say that the whole resort is as close to “Village” as we can get. Even the white rounded lamp posts dotted about have an altogether twee glow about them. I’m filled with a very odd nostalgia as I recall childhood visits to the quaint St Ives back home in England.

Whilst admiring the view; Stef amuses us with throwing a water bottle in the air single handed, Tom Cruise style. We find this entertaining for about five seconds before heading back to the resort to raid the games collection.

Here we’re somewhat transported back to our childhoods when you’d have a spoilt brat friend who owned every single game or toy; only, due to their brat ways showed no appreciation or respect for anything. As a consequence of this ingratitude, every board game would be missing bits here and there which invariably meant you’d have to spend half the time making or finding substitute pieces in order to get any play out of it.

Well, that’s exactly what we found when we rifled through Coral Coves fine games collection.

Despite lacking 8 necessary pieces, we go for a beaten up plastic Backgammon board.

After sneaking this delightful piece of craftsmanship into the refuge of our room (we can still hear the faint wailings of old ginger Jackson singing Waterloo on repeat) we hungrily search in our bags for something to substitute the missing bits.

Nothing comes to mind, until Stef has a brain wave and whips out some old Nicorette Gum. It’s far from perfect, but it’ll do.

We play Backgammon into the night, until the Nicorette Gum goes all sticky and melts into my fingers. Outside our room we can hear the night’s revelry begin to take shape. The resort has been selling tickets for a Christmas dinner in town and now it seems the town has turned up; right outside our room.

Perhaps it’s too much of The Prisoner or that ginger kids incessant howling to the Abba gods but we’re feeling decidedly anti social; plus the ticket for the dinner is excessively priced.

We treat ourselves to a Steak and Kidney Pie, Mash Potatoes and lashings of gravy and quietly slink back to our room with a large G and T. There we pull off all the buttons of our less loved shirts in preparation for a marathon Backgammon session; anything to take our minds off a hideously tone deaf Filipino woman who is clearly in love with the sound of her own voice.

Later, when I do muster the courage to entertain some form of social interaction; a nice if not very gaudily dressed Filipino woman offers me a glass of warm mulled wine.

I feel terribly guilty at being so reclusive but somehow can’t bring myself round to the idea of enduring a night of squealing strangers around a karaoke machine.

The next morning we mumble something about Christmas and make a determined effort to Skype all our family members. This proves a little difficult as the internet connection here is far from consistent. Eventually, however and through many curse words, we do get to see most faces and have a heart warming if not brief chat.

Our Christmas presents to each other come in the shape of a Margerita and we spend the day dossing about just like we do at home, only with a lot less chocolate and no mention of a turkey.

The food at the resort is pretty good but always leaves a bitter taste due to the extortionate prices. In fact we’re quite surprised that they advertise themselves on Hostelbookers, as they’re by no means in that category.

Still, we do manage to get a relatively Christmassy dinner consisting of a roast chicken leg, roast potatoes and so on.

Obviously the place is way off our budget and we both realise that we need to get out of here at the first opportunity.

We’ve heard that Sabang is a sleaze pit of a place, so thought we’d give White Beach and Aninuan Beach a go which are on the north west of the island. Accommodation choice doesn’t look abundant but we manage to book a place at Bamboo huts, which we’re told is in a nice secluded place with some good snorkelling spots.

One thing’s for sure; the cash is slipping through our fingers fast and we desperately need some good cheap accommodation.

On the day before we’re due to leave Coral Cove we take a free ride into town; pick up a trike and get him to take us to White Beach in the hope we can find cheaper digs than Bamboo Huts as they are still quite expensive.

He rips us off terribly as we’ve no idea how far White Beach is. This puts us in a god awful mood; we really have had our fill of money grabbing taxi men. But worse still, when we get to White Beach, what we find is a ghastly Filipino Malaga. It’s a heartbreaking find- a totally ruined piece of landscape.

We make a quick retreat to the sly trike driver, still with the hope that Aninuan Beach will be an attractive alternative.

Alas, it’s exactly the same as White Beach, only on a smaller scale. And, when I spy the far from secluded Bamboo Huts, my heart sinks.

This is by far the worse place we’ve been to in the Philippines. We may as well be on an 18-30’s tour package. It’s disgusting and we hate it.

It is here that for a moment our love for the Philippines leaves our hearts. We sit crouched in the trike scowling at the Filipino Chav driving the thing and desperately trying to see a way out.

Call it foolish and impetuous, but we make a decision to leave the Philippines for good. We have barley any money left and we’d rather spend it somewhere where we’re actually going to enjoy ourselves; for it seems that for quite some time now we’ve been in an endless struggle avoiding one rip off only to fall for another. Frankly we’re tired of the place and need to leave before we grow to despise it; which would be a crime because this is such a beautiful country.

The dream of renting a place on an idyllic reef has well and truly expired. It’s not going to happen and we haven’t the time or money to look anymore. We decide to spend the last of our pennies visiting somewhere new- Thailand, in the hope that it will deepen our appreciation for this beloved place. And I’m sure that as we initially expected it will but pale in comparison to the 7,000 glorious islands that make up this tropical sanctuary, the Philippines.

But that we have yet to prove...

Pigs, Puerto Princesa, a bookless bookshop and a “lucky” find…

bear — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 19:27:00 GMT

It’s early and it’s check-out time. We have a private bus booked to take us back to Puerto Princesa; we have a flight to Manila the next day. We’ve decided to discover more of the Philippines outside of the Visayas, so decided to spend Christmas in Puerto Galera. We’ve booked a resort online just in case everywhere is booked up. The place is called Coral Cove and is horrendously over our budget; but it’s our Christmas treat so we’re willing to push the boat out.

For the journey back to Puerto Princesa I’ve the foresight to book us front seats for the ride; no more bumping around in the back. We hope.

We make it to the bus terminal in good time; scoring ourselves some cheap plastic chairs to elevate us from the stinking mud that makes up the bus depot.

David had booked the same bus as us, and happens to be taking the same flight to Manila. Unfortunately for him; it’s the last leg of his journey, and he will spend the next 70 hours traveling back to his homeland in Israel.

Needless to say, when he arrives at the bus depot a few minutes late; he has the look of a madman. His punctuality however has little effect on the journey, as the bus is unfashionably late; and we’re left to wonder if our tickets are even valid.

It seems that he’d been up half the night with Dominic (with whom he’s been sharing digs with), who is reportedly very ill with fever and sickness. We hope he’ll be ok; David could only leave him in the hands of the resort.

Eventually a busman attempts to bundle us on an already overflowing van. There’s no way I’m getting on after booking seats and paying for the privilege.

I demand an explanation as to where the ticketed bus is.

The guy looks dumfounded and tells me (in a gesture) to continue waiting.

Of course this is a great opportunity for David to show us just how aggrieved his state of mind is to fact that he must return to the real world; he decides that there’s nothing better than to go and hug a pig. A big pig. He orders a bewildered Stef to catalogue this strange encounter on his camera. Stef can only oblige as he watches David entice a Pig with a Strawberry Oreo between his teeth.

It’s all too much for me; still half asleep and somewhat affronted by the whole bus saga.

After much moaning, a busman finally points us towards our supposed van. It’s the van that has been sitting there the whole time by our plastic chairs; the van with the shattered window that looks like something the A-Team rejected.

Anything to get David away from them damn pigs!

“We’re going,” I scream, almost elated.

Well, at least we’ll get front seats after all.

Stef and David come running, leaving the poor pigs to squeal in utter confusion (or defilement).

“Wash your hands.”

I murmur, not quite understanding David’s sudden curiosity with the sty dwelling creatures.

Although the van is far from road worthy, we manage to score some first class seats, albeit a bit wobbly.

We leave El Nido, with a happier David (now that he has pictures of himself with pigs) and some of the best memories of our trip thus far.

(It should be noted that along the way we stopped at a farm to use the toilet. David found yet another very large sow which he practically jumped on. I was ordered to take yet more shots of him “hugging” the pig. So elated by this extra pig encounter he proceeded to leave his bag, which contained, amongst other valuables; his passport. Thankfully the farm’s people were honest folk and just before we took off, came running out with his pack. All in the name of pigs I tell you!)

We make it to Puerto Princesa in more than good timing. It’s only early afternoon, so plenty of time to secure digs, chill out and make some decisions about our next moves.

The first place we go to doesn’t cut the mustard, so we scoot off in search of another place, only to lose David in the process.

In a nutshell and with little choice (but many surprises) we reluctantly point in the direction of that good old D’Lucky Garden Inn.

Now, this is where things get a little odd, as if fate has in all her peculiarities drawn us to this end…

At the beginning of our trip in Bali, we had purchased for ourselves some rather summery, if not annoying (in the carrying about kind of way) hats. Since then the buggers have been following us around like unwanted wedding bands. We’re almost ashamed to have them. But something has been telling us, that if these hats don’t make it back to Britain then somehow this whole trip has been in vain (It’s ludicrous, but not unlike the insane compulsion to avoid the cracks in the pavement: unavoidable).

Thus Stef and I have done our upmost to both keep and at a more sub conscious level, destroy the hats. Everywhere we go, it’s always “the hats this” or “the hats that”.

Many times we have considered loosing these useless appendages; only to convince ourselves that we will in some way be “destroyed” or miserably regretful if the hats don’t make it back with us.

The hats are now us and we are the hats.

Regardless of all this hat nonsense, we (with our tails between our proverbial legs) enter the D’Lucky Garden Inn, trying our hardest to keep our chins up.

Gratefully it’s the less evil receptionist on duty. Her face says it all; why on earth did you come back to this hell- hole you poor unsuspecting waifs.

We nod in agreement by way of paying another preposterous sum for the same room as we had before.

And as before, there’s the same mosquito blood stains on the wall, the same damp sweaty curtains and the same gargling AC unit.

Then, quite unexpectedly, the receptionist runs gaily into our room holding- yes- those damn hats! Only this time with a big white sticker on them with the word “MR PODS” in thick black ink.

I can only stare at them, dumfounded. I truly thought we’d seen the last of them. We hadn’t a clue where we’d left them!

“Mr. Pods,” the girl nods, so happy to reunite the now shabby hats to their rightful owners.

“Yes, Mr. Pods.”

I confirm, just very slightly creeped out.

I run over to the gardens to show Stef this peculiar turn up .

“Those bloody hats!”

He looks just as incredulous as me.

It seems they’ll make it back to Britain after all.

Once back in the room I throw the hats down onto the bed only to notice that there seems to be another, less warming addition to them, in the form of a big hairy cockroach.

I cannot help but scream; I dislike them with a passion (the cockroach, not the hats).

In seconds the room is full with men wielding broomsticks and the receptionist with a large can of Baygon.

Poor old cocky doesn’t stand a chance. He does however score us another “upgraded” room, which we gladly accept.

Shame then, when about an hour later we find an even bigger more imposing cockroach in the bathroom of our newly upgraded room.

The receptionist returns, equipped with yet more Baygon. All in a day’s work I imagine. Once we have her in our midst’s we persuade her to help us put up our mosquito net. We spend an amusing half hour in a pseudo krypton factor style operation; trying aimlessly to secure the net with nothing but masking tape and a good sense of humor.

She leaves thinking that we’re clearly idiots.

Now that we‘ve secured digs, it’s time to visit a book shop that we’ve looked up. It’s supposed to be very good indeed.

First we visit the Lotus Garden, a Japanese restaurant complete with water lily gardens amidst a very tranquil setting. There’s even a floating room with a hammock which can only be reached by stepping stones.

We take our lunch here. I order the Sinigang (a clear fish soup) and Stef orders what looks like fish fingers. The Japanese food is too expensive for our budget.

After lunch and now in possession of a slip of paper with the full name of the book shop on (given by the nice waitress dressed as a Geisha), we’re ready to jump in a trike.

As with all trike drivers, we first have to haggle over the fare. Once this obligatory transaction is complete, we try to communicate the name of the bookshop to the driver, who seems wholly unbelieving to its very existence.

We spend far too long driving around the strange, squalid back streets of the capital in search of this elusive bookstore.

Finally the driver looks certain he’s found the place and with a jolly wag of his finger, points at what quite rightly looks like a bookshop. Only, it seems that every book for sale is in fact a Bible.

“No. No,” we say, “not Bible.”

He looks downright depressed; starting up his engine muttering something under his breath.

After much huffing and puffing we finally pull up inside a rather dull, uninspiring car-park; home to the magnificent book store.

Relived of his duties, the driver happily bids us farewell and leaves us to explore the mysteries that lie within its opaque windows. This is after all, the best book store in town (or so we’ve been led to believe). From where I’m standing, it looks pretty small; especially if it’s to hold the “grand” café that we’ve also been informed exists here.

Sucking in the last of the hot, petroleum filled air; we enter the cool, minimal surroundings of “Beans and Pages” (I knew the name would come to me in the end!).

Something is not quite right, but before we get a chance to pinpoint this feeling of discontent, we espy a familiar face; it’s Domingo the owner of Inngo in El Nido, looking rather dapper. He recognizes us straight away, explaining he’s on some kind of “government” business (something about water). We can see he’s busy and make our excuses, rather unsure as to why a government meeting should take place in “Beans and Pages” and why for that matter our guesthouse owner should be involved in these goings on.

Ok, so it’s time for coffee and some potential book buying. One problem there; there’s no books. Unless you call the Harry Potter series “books”, which we unfortunately do not (unless we wanted some particularly scratchy toilet paper).

Rather dejected at the apparent lack of literature on offer, I decide to check out the nearby massage parlors, leaving Stef to wallow in his coffee.

I manage to get a cheap massage in a rather clinical looking building that also offers cosmetic surgery; strange, as all the staff look like hairdressers and not exactly surgeons. At one point, I doubt I’ll ever get a massage as they’re all too busy painting each other’s nails a horrible shade of green.

After waiting sometime, I’m taken through to what looks like a padded cell. I’m left in a brief panic when my masseuse leaves me to contemplate my surroundings, only for me to hear her giggling uncontrollably with another member of staff right outside. Have I entered the madhouse?

I’m instantly transported back to S Korea where the childish nurse at my GP Surgery use to make no attempt at finding my white western body hilarious to the point where she’d have to leave the room.

Having seemingly “pulled” herself together; surpassing the initial shock of having to see a white woman half naked, my masseuse is ready to kneed out my many knots and bumps.

And, in what I hope is an attempt at an apology for her previous lack of discretion; she grants me an extra twenty minutes of shoulder rub.

Feeling refreshed and well over the bookstore disappointment, we head back to the Lotus Garden for some dinner.

Tomorrow we have an early plane to catch.

Tiger, Tiger, burning…a hole in my pocket.

bear — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 19:10:00 GMT

I don’t know whether it’s because Palawan has turned out to be a trifle more costly than we expected, but it’s about that time when we both must seriously look into our pockets.

We must face the reality that we’ve lost a lot through not renting like we’d originally planned to do.

It’s a sad fact; but every trip must end somewhere.

Annoyingly, when we flew out of Singapore to Cebu, we unwittingly were forced into buying an outward flight (you must have an onward ticket to enter the Philippines, else you won’t be able to board). Conveniently for Tiger Air, all other (cheaper airline) systems were down, thus, with only 10 minutes to board, we had no choice but to buy a rather expensive flight back to Singapore from them. Of course, at the time we thought a refund wouldn’t be an issue and chose a date at random for the return, happy just to be able to board the damn plane.

Alas, now at their mercy, it would seem the refund, once calculated will amount to nothing but a few pence once all the charges and cancellation fees have been processed.

To further this annoyance, we’ve also landed ourselves a return ticket to Cebu, even though it’s Manila that we need to get to. This also will present a rather large hole in our pockets.

We have a strange morning discussing the eventuality of our return home.

It’s the first time that we’ve really confronted the issue and we’re both a little subdued with it all.

Plus, we have friends to meet who will be holidaying here in mid January; alas it seems that our budget will not even stretch that far if we’re to be honest with ourselves.

We walk about the village in a quandary.

The date on our departing ticket is fast approaching and will mean we’ll miss our friends by a matter of days.

Sadly, as with many things in life; it all comes down to money.

To cheer ourselves up (and avoid the inevitable decision we must make) we take a trike to Las Cabanas, a nearby palmed, white beach. We’ve heard good things about it, so thought we’d check it out.

As always we get ripped off with the fare by the trike driver (a frequent occurrence out here), but he promises to collect us at 5.30 so we don’t argue.

As yet, we cannot see the beach. We look bemusedly to the driver, who points down a rather steep path leading into what looks like a jungle.

Ok, all roads lead to Rome, we guess.

After passing two small, make shift bridges over some very stagnant, mosquito filled water, we eventually espy a collection of gargantuan palm trees. We can’t help but stare up at their sky- scraper proportions.

Once off the path we get a spectacular view; the beach is impossibly beautiful and deserted. The sand is brilliantly golden and more importantly, free from any footprints.

We decide to take shelter from a tree, as the sun is scorching hot. Looking out we can admire the view of El Nido and its impressive limestone islands.

Now, the only thing to do is to crack out the cakes that we bought from the baker in town. As soon as we do this we get a couple of unexpected visitors in the form of the very cute, furry variety.

The puppy and his mum seem to take a shine to us (or our cakes) and spend the best part of the late morning frolicking in the sand by our towels.

Later on, we wonder along the shore to what seems like the only place to get a drink around here. The resort looks like one of the holiday destinations you would win if you won “Going for Gold” or something; lots of little straw umbrellas and hammocks lolling about the postcard setting. It almost looks too good to be true…

It’s under one of these straw umbrella/hut things that we decide to take refuge. Very soon a young Filipino girl enters ready to take our order. We have just under an hour left before our trike driver is due to pick us up.

Looking through the ridiculously priced menu, we ridiculously order two Margueritas. Over twenty minutes later, the drinks arrive; well worth the wait as they turn out to be delicious.

In the true fashion of idiots, and with only twenty minutes left before we have to meet our driver; we order another two Margueritas, making our time constraints known to the very amiable young waitress.

“No problem,” she reassures us and quickly scurries away.

True to her word, the drinks arrive just a short while later.

We have ten minutes to drink them.

Greedily we pour the poison from the shaker into our glasses. The liquid looks a little more transparent than the previous (delicious) drink.

In fact, it seems that we’ve just been given lemon juice.

Lemon juice- pah!

And, seeing as what we are paying for these ludicrous drinks is close to a couple nights accommodation, I feel just a tad inclined to chase the waitress and demand what’s happened.

I find her lurking in the maze like gardens of the resort.

“Hey, there’s no alcohol in our drinks!”

She cocks her head like a confused parrot.

“Our drinks- they’re…not right,” I pursue.

She smiles at me giddily.

I have a feeling she’s feigning ignorance.

“Look, I just want our money back if that’s alright. We don’t want the drink anymore. It’s not the same as the last one.”

She shakes her head, her smile turning to a frown.

“Wait,” she pleads, “I ask my boss.”

Fair do’s.

I run back to Stef and tell him what’s happened. We have about five minutes to rectify the situation.

Thankfully, the girl appears, urging me to follow her.

It seems we are to enter the dragons den, as the girl looks positively terrified.

Oh God.

As with most dens that home a crazed beast; the atmosphere is positively dark and foreboding.

“You got any comments,” a cruel, spiteful voice sings from over her perch, bobbing her head as if in time to some scary ass street beats.

It would seem that I have been transported to The Jerry Springer Show.

Still, I won’t be intimidated out of my money, no matter what monster I must pass in the process.

“Funny enough; yes, I do.”

“Oh, really?”

She retorts, her head wobbling about her shoulders like a rabid thunderbird.

“Yes. Our Margueritas have no Tequila in; at the prices you are charging I expect a good drink,”

I smile sweetly and continue-

“Now, I’m really sorry, but as I explained to your waitress, we’re in a bit of a hurry, so I’d really appreciate a refund.”

Godzilla (queen of the streets), eyes me suspiciously. I doubt anyone has had the nerve to put this beast in her place. But as with all dictators, there’s always a scapegoat to take the blame. Much to my horror and disappointment, it seems that the young waitress is fresh fodder. I can sense her cowering behind me.

“She,” Godzilla spits, pointing at the waitress (which, from where I’m standing looks as if she’s pointing directly at me), “She (as if the word is dirty) DON’T KNOW HOW TO MAKE A MAGUERITA. I told her NO make MAGUERITA. BUT; she did.”

She reiterates this point in Filipino, just in case the poor girl didn’t get her venom clear enough.

“Well, I think she was just trying to save time. But really, it’s not a problem. I’ll just have my money back and be on my way.”

“Yes,” she smirks, “I give you money back.”

As if rewarding me or something.

Thank god.

I feel terrible about the waitress but we really can’t throw that kind of money away on drinks that have no alcohol in.

“The first drinks were really good,” I say, in an attempt to salvage some of the waitress’s face.

Godzilla glares at me, as if to say “whatever”.

She truly is the ugliest, poisonous person I have met here, and in such a short space of time.

As I walk out of the den I pass the waitress who manages a smile; we now share a common enemy.

There’s now only enough time for us to race back to our driver, who greets us with a greedy eye (in expectance of receiving the last payment of his overpriced fare).

Photos: Tour C adventure

bear — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 18:52:00 GMT

Island Hopping!

Close Shaves and Moustaches

bear — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 18:47:00 GMT

Ever since we’ve been here, we’ve been meaning to take one of the island hopping tours, which range from the ultimate snorkeling experience, to the more picture postcard island dossing experience.

We take tour C and go for the ultimate snorkeling experience. In this deal, you get taken around all the best snorkeling spots for the day- get a freshly cooked lunch of fish or chicken and even some time to relax on one of the remote islands beaches. You get all this for less than a tenner!

And, seeing as we now have David and Dominic in tow, we have no problem making up the numbers for our expedition, as you must be at least a group of four.

We start out early, prepared with our obligatory stash of peanuts and water (we won’t travel anywhere without these necessities. The peanuts here are a cheerful bunch and like many food stuffs in the Philippines, named Happy).

There’s another couple who have joined our party and they turn out to be good company.

Ready to go, we make to the shore to board our banca boat. On board are three crew members, including a fourteen year old boy, a toothy older guy, and a very butch mustached man who looks like he’d be more suited with a gun and a horse rather than a boat.

Very soon we’re on the open water, chatting away to the new members of the group and enjoying the sunshine. It turns out that Si and Armie are from Singapore; we spend most of the boat journey laughing about the billion and one prohibitions there.

Anyway, the first stop is supposed to be great for some snorkeling. We‘re all very excited about what we’ll find; first however, we must survive the gale force winds as we navigate around some sharp limestone. Poor Armie gets soaking wet as waves lash over the deck. It seems to be getting pretty violent. I look back at the crew- the older guy is smiling his toothy grin; everything is as it should be (I hope).

We arrive at the first spot only to find that quite a few other tour boats have beaten us to it. Still, I’m a bit glad to be getting off the boat as I’ve been feeling a tad sea sick. The water looks rough and deep; far from inviting.

Moustache man throws down the anchor, as if throwing but a mere feather and the skipper boy opens up the floor, pulling out a life jacket. I’ll have one of those, thank you very much. The water is deep and rather sketchy after all.

At once, we don our snorkels and one by one plop into the water. I’m last to go, and feeling a little weary in my bright orange jacket. I think everyone thinks I’m a looser, but I really don’t care by the looks of the sea. If I’m too make it to the supposed reef, I’ll need it. I’m not the strongest swimmer.

As the others glide off, I’m left a bobbling weeble upon the waves; wondering if the jacket was quite such a good idea.

The visibility is not great but good enough for me to see what I think is a sharks head coming out of the rocks below me.

I float, transfixed on its ugly head. Shall I move, shall I scream? No, I’ll just stay still and do nothing (apart from bob up and down in my very stupid orange jacket).

I stick my head out of the water and look for the others, who are now well out of sight; in fact the boat is still very close. Some morbid fascination draws my head back under and immediately I berate myself as what I thought was the head of a shark is actually the head of the biggest puffer fish I’ve ever seen. I had no idea they could get that big. Oddly enough, it seems to be bobbing around in the same peculiar fashion as me in this silly jacket. It looks almost drunk. Maybe it sees me a fellow comrade, or worse still, a possible mate. Euck.

Moving on, I have a little look about the depths, but nothing really seems worth looking at. It’s all very dark and dull and I’m too scared to go any further, so head back to the boat. Moustache man helps me aboard; his expression is hard to pin down. I think he’s probably killed people; yes, he definitely has the look of a killer. And here we are, just us, the ocean and his moustache.

It’s all too Cape Fear for my liking.

Before I scare myself half to death, the others start to trickle back, like a rather predictable tap; first Si and Armie, Stef, Dominic, and then David; who is always late.

No one seems particularly taken with this spot, so we move on in hope of some place better. It’s not difficult after all; there are islands everywhere you look.

The next place to discover is called something like Secret Island. Apparently you have to swim through a small crack in the limestone; once through this crack you can find a hidden beach.

Once again, I don the orange jacket. The ocean looks rough and by the looks of things this supposed crack looks just a tad perilous; waves being sucked into its vortex in a rather brutal manner. Hmmmm. Do I really want to be sucked into it too?

Here goes!

As always I’m the last to get in. Sure enough, the water throws me about like a rag in a wheel. I hardly notice that I’m through the crack; in fact it’s hard to notice much when you’re being chucked about so much.

A hand appears from somewhere and I’m hauled up onto the rocks inside the “secret” island.

After clambering over some rock pools, we all flake out on the small white beach inside; looking up to see the sky through an opening in the limestone. There’s a surreal remoteness about this place; unfortunately this feeling is very quickly ruined by the other boat loads of people turning up.

Not so Secret now, is it.

Once back to the boat, we find moustache man in a bit of a tussle with another boats anchor. Too many boats spoil the ocean, I guess.

Soon however, we are free; but once more I get a slither of something sinister when watching moustache man fiercely untangle our way to freedom.

There’s some rough water to cover, but we soon make headway towards a lovely set of small islands- white beaches, and crystal like water.

There, our crew inform us they’ll prepare a lunch- some grilled chicken, mackerel, salad and rice; followed by some bananas.

Indeed, life couldn’t be better.

But, it does get better, as we soon discover that this island has a perfectly intact reef, with a pretty awesome wall and drop off. It’s the closest thing to Panagsama we’ve seen so far. There are loads of fish and although we don’t see any, I’m almost certain there are turtles lurking about.

We spend quite some time following the reef around to the next island, before heading back to the crew for lunch.

The food is simple, but extremely tasty and in generous supply.

Stef quaffs a whole 2 mackerels all to himself.

We thank the crew kindly; especially moustache man as I expect we’re all trying to get in his good books in order to spare ourselves from his stern looks (and murderous eyes).

I really don’t want to leave this island- it’s so pretty and the reef is gorgeous and manageable as the water is so calm and clear. Plus I’m feeling very sleepy after scoffing down so much grilled fish and rice.

But, Dominic and David seem pretty eager to get to the next snorkeling spot; so we all trundle aboard in the hope that this location won’t be as rough as the first spot we visited…

It’s worse, much worse.

It hardly seems like the boat can stay above water, let alone snorkelers. But the crew seem unfazed and tells us to swim across the water as they cannot take the banca inside this other, larger “secret” island, as it’s too dangerous.

Hmmmmm.

Of course there is another way into the lagoon type island, but the crew warns us that this seemingly quicker way in is too dangerous as the rough waves will drag you over sharp rocks in the shallow water. They tell us it is better to swim around the deeper ocean water, following the perimeter of the islands cliff face. This is all well and good, but the islands cliff face is a good swim away, through what looks like some pretty treacherous water.

The current looks far too strong for a weak swimmer and the waves lashing against the rocks look capable of causing quite some damage in a skin tearing way.

All this is very strange, especially when we see another, more sea worthy vessel sail straight into the (albeit) narrow entrance to the lagoon.

When I ask the toothy old man why we cannot sail into the lagoon like the other boat, he replies with an expected toothy, vacant grin.

So, we must do this on our own then.

On goes the life jacket and snorkel, although the sea is so very rough I hardly expect to see anything through the bumps.

I urge Stef to wear a life jacket too, but he’s far too cool for these mere appendages; as are the rest of the group it would seem.

Anyway, we get into the water and start to swim towards these rocks we’re supposed to follow around to the rear entrance of the lagoon. Despite the atrocious waves, we do manage to see some coral and spot some odd looking fish.

Before long though, I’m exhausted with the strong current. I hate to think of the others who aren’t even wearing a jacket.

It’s impossible to even talk, as the wind is gale force.

Si and Armie soon disappear and I expect they’ve gone for the quicker (but apparently more dangerous) entrance.

I can see that Stef is becoming exhausted and I urge him back towards the boat. Yet, he seems intent on chasing Dominic and David on this ludicrous venture around what looks like death rocks.

I scream back at him that I’m going to try and swim back to the boat. I don’t think he hears this, but I’m already trying my hardest to swim back. The waves are turning my guts.

I can only hope they make it unscathed.

I get back on the boat feeling pretty angry towards the crew. I ask them why they told us to swim around the rocks when it’s clearly a dangerous thing to do.

I really don’t think they understand what I’m saying; the winds are vicious and roaring in my ears. I begin to feel sick as the boat continues to rock crazily on the water. Moustache man eyes me suspiciously as I attempt to lie down on one of the benches, whilst old toothy seems to be totally unaware of our imminent peril, swinging high into his hammock like a kid on break time.

I keep my fingers crossed and tell myself I’m just a paranoid sailor.

But then my heart sinks as Si and Armie return and tell me that they’ve not seen Stef or the others and they’ve been in the lagoon for quite some time. They presumed they’d just gone back to the boat.

They also tell me how dangerous the whole thing was and they too feel like we shouldn’t have come here.

Just as I’m ready to send out the search party I spy that same boat coming out of the lagoon, carrying a rather disheveled looking Stef on the bow.

Hoorah!

I can tell by the colour of his face that something is amiss.

Sure enough, the way around the cliffs had been anything but easy and he said that at one point he was in fear for his life.

It turns out that the waves and currents were so strong that he’d been smashed against the rocks, giving himself some nasty coral laced cuts- a rather serious injury if not treated straight away. Thankfully we always carry anti-bac, so douse his cuts immediately.

He’s lucky he didn’t drown.

Why on earth they told us to go around that way is beyond logical reasoning (of course I suspected there was something untoward about moustache features. Clearly I was right).

Despite this close shave with death, we all recover surprisingly well; enough to get excited about our last stop to Helicopter Island- named thus so due to its shape.

Its dusk by the time we anchor and the sky has that wonderful melting quality where it seems to blend into the sea. The stretch of beach is long and inviting; the water still warm from the sun.

There’s a magical sense of freedom here; perhaps I’m just feeling this due to Stef’s close shave with the rocks, but this island is truly tranquil, open and vast.

It looks out onto a celestial ocean; from here you can see many of the islands that make up northern Palawan.

Maybe it’s the way the shore curves or maybe it’s this newfound sense of freedom (or maybe it’s Patrick McGoohans face), but I can’t stop myself from running up and down the shore as if that big white balloon is chasing me.

Yet as with all good things, the bubble has to burst (or ensconce your whole being until you look like you’re gnawing your way out of a plastic stocking) and soon we’re all bundled on board for the final homeward sail.

It’s been an invigorating day. Again, one we’ll never forget.

Palawan is having that effect on us…

Photos: Las Cabanas

bear — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 01:16:00 GMT

El Nido

Photos: The "Village"

bear — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 00:47:00 GMT

You won't get it!

I am not a Number…!

bear — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 21:16:00 GMT

Yes, so as you can tell we really have been watching Patrick Mcgoohan’s face a little too much- really not a sensible choice of entertainment to watch on a remote island village.

Oh well, “They won’t get it” and all that.

Anyway, we’re still lapping up the epic views of El Nido and generally chilling out with our pals Rob and Mary- which means we’ve been involved in some pretty marathon card sessions, most of which have taken place in these rather unique nests above the shore at the not so uniquely named Alternative Café.

Well, feeling like we’ve already done our bit in the name of originality, all there is to do is shuffle and see what’s on the menu.

I gladly order some humous and pitta which, when it comes out is more like cement and pitta.

That aside, we get stuck into some cards, half watching a man down in the sea who hasn’t apparently moved for at least an hour. We guess he’s something of an inert water baby.

Not feeling as lazy as the others, I decide to take a swim back to our new digs, maybe just to quell the curiosity around the inert water baby (we moved to Rico’s- a nice beach front cabin with a balcony for 100 pesos less than the box down the road!).

I instantly regret this decision when I’m confronted by two very hormonal Filipino boys- one even has his Filipino girlfriend hanging onto him like a limp fish. Needless to say, she’s not as affable as her cheery boyfriend. I curse myself for not swimming fast enough away to hear the expected-

“Hey, I wanna swim with you!”

Oh God.

I put on my very formal, very English accent, as if I were talking to a student.

This doesn’t seem to put off my suitor, who seems to be swimming closer and closer- rather annoyingly, like the tide when you’re trying desperately to keep your feet dry.

How awkward.

Nothing seems to wipe the huge Cheshire like smile on this boy’s face.

I ask him a series of mundane questions in the hope that he’ll go away, but all I get is a very gleeful

“Yes, yes.”

As if yes is the answer to everything.

I soon begin suspect if this boy knows any English at all.

Then, like gold, I seem to hit a nerve when I ask him how old he is.

He pauses, looking suspiciously sheepish (or maybe he’s just counting in his head in English).

“Eighteen,” he grins.

Bullshit.

“Aw, you’re a baby!”

Perfect- a sure way to get rid of him.

I look back longingly at the nests and notice that Stef and co are still enjoying a sensible, adult game of cards.

If only my homous hadn’t tasted like cement, if only I’d have felt lazy, if only I wasn’t stuck in the ocean with a strange “yes” boy!

Thankfully “yes” boy notices me looking back at the nests.

He gives me a quizzical look.

Now’s my chance!

“Oh yes, there’s my BOYFRIEND and friends,”

I say pointing vigorously towards them just to make sure he gets it and that I haven’t just conjured up these people.

My goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a boy swim off so fast.

There goes my chance of a Filipino toy boy I guess…

I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to be alone in the water. The whole fiasco was more draining than a few lengths of actual swimming.

Later on we bump into Nippun and Jonathan, our mates from Melaka. We’ve already eaten by the time we see them, but join them for some drinks regardless.

In a nutshell, we all somehow manage to embroil ourselves in a rather petty dispute with the rather passive aggressive (I think German or Bulgarian) owner of a restaurant on the beach called “Euarasia” (or something like that).

Jonathan had politely pointed out to the rather sensitive owner that his happy hour sign implied that pizza, as well as drinks were buy one get one free.

The fat (and I suspect possibly drunk) white haired chef seem to take this little correction as some kind of personal affront and guffawed rather menacingly before turning on his heel in a very obvious huff.

Wow.

We almost felt guilty for having such a good grasp of English grammar. So guilty in fact that Nipun and Jonathan order some food from the despot (or maybe they’re just very hungry), much to my protestations about his rude manner.

Still, I think they feel the whole thing was lost in translation, so Jonathan amiably makes an attempt to clear things up with the hot headed chef.

I don’t think this works either and going by Nipun’s face, I think she’s rather worried just how her Spag Bol is going to come out.

Needless to say, it’s disgusting.

Sadly, the story doesn’t end here, as later Nipun is violently sick and pretty sure it’s the “poisoned” Spag Bol at fault.

Eurasia is definitely off our menus!

Funny enough, we all seem to go through a bit of “sickness” in El Nido, with everyone, including myself getting a bit “dicky.”

Anyway, over the next few days we familiarise ourselves with the quaint little village, sorting out the good from the bad to the downright sickly in terms of eateries.

Unfortunately we end up leaving Rico’s after a gang of Americans decide to have a shindig in the room next door without inviting us (they may as well invited us as we heard the whole thing). We should have learnt our lesson by now that “wooden” hostels don’t make great places to sleep, unless you like the sensation of an earthquake every time someone visits the loo.

We find an even cheaper alternative- brand new place with AC called InnGo- only it’s not on the beach, but seeing as the beach is quite literally a stones through away, we really don’t mind.

The owner is very pleasant and the boys that run the place are very willing to please. It’s a refreshing attitude from the last two places we’ve stayed at, where people seen positively affronted when faced with any polite requests.

They also have the most adorable puppy, aptly named Happy.

Eventually we lose Rob and Mary, only to gain David, who we met in Cebu and his new acquaintance, Dominic.

Rob and Mary debated whether to get the night ferry to Coron (another breathtaking set of islands 8 hours away), but decided against it, what with time and expense, etc. Instead, they decide to go on to Puerto Galera.

It’s Christmas in a few days, and we all feel a little odd, departing company in flip flops, shorts and little else. Not a wooly hat in sight!

In fact, it hardly feels like Christmas at all.

Nipun and Jonathan also leave the island, heading (with some trepidation for their purse strings) to Tokyo, Japan. We make a plan to meet back in Blighty upon our return (to the real world).

Photos: El Nido

bear — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 20:55:00 GMT

A little something on Mutiny…

bear — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 15:38:00 GMT

It’s early; we’re awoken to the sound of waves lashing the shore and the fact that we had agreed to go kayaking despite the copious amounts of San Miguel consumed the previous evening. Well, the early bird catches the worm and all that- so we ignore our thumping heads and head out to breakfast- not quite sure what to expect around here. We also have a notion to move digs, as at 900 pesos, the cramped cottage seems a little over priced, considering the fact that it’s without a direct sea-view. We’re certain that there are less pricey, more pleasing options knocking around.

We take our breakfast at a café directly in front of our resort- a little apprehensive, as Rob and Mary informed us that this place may or may not have been responsible for a recent bout of food poisoning. Admittedly there are hoards of flies around the tables; but apart from this not so uncommon occurrence, everything seems to be perfectly edible and nice. There are also some very cute kittens skulking about. Bonus.

Who cares about food poisoning anyway!

Rob and Mary turn up in good timing. Mary orders a mango shake and going by the look on her face, is far from impressed. It seems we have all become mango shake connoisseurs over the past couple of months. Rob gives it a bash- yes, it’s a weak example of a mango shake.

Whilst we’re discussing the finer points of this mighty tropical beverage, we suddenly notice a couple that we met back in Malaysia- Nipun and Jonathan. Both are off on a dive- we promise to meet for dinner later. It’s great to see them, and we’re immediately reminded of our time in Melaka, eating delicious curries and scrumptious satay.

After breakfast, we take a quick wonder down the rather intimate lane that joins most of El Nido’s establishments. For a Filipino town, El Nido appears to be the quaintest we’ve come across. There’s definitely something about it. It has an altogether different feel compared to the gazillion other cardboard -cut –out towns across the Visaya’s. Perhaps this sentiment is due to its sheer remoteness or the fact that it’s back dropped by some of the most dramatic and beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen.

If it wasn’t for the same- same stalls selling those tired old tye-dye t-shirts and garishly coloured skin tight jeans- I’d even go on to say that it’s romantic in a rustic, other- worldly sort of way.

Facing north down this picturesque lane, your eyes are instantly drawn up towards the mountainous, somewhat overbearing limestone cliffs. To the right, all you can see are the many cottages, shops and stalls; yet the sound of the sea constantly reassures you that just beyond these necessary abodes is the most epic, dazzling bay (probably in the world). And that is exactly where we’re heading after we’ve secured a supply of mangos, peanuts and water. We need the energy for our adventures out to sea.

In fact, I’ve not really given this much thought. Perhaps that’ll be my folly once out on the open water…

When we get to the shore, Rob and Mary are already shoving their bags aboard their bright yellow kayak- both getting unavoidably wet in an attempt to embark.

I worry for our bag- which contains our camera and speakers (just in case we decide to have a private rave on a deserted beach). I also worry that I’ve no idea how to make a kayak move- especially on open and seemingly rough ocean water. Stef however looks right at home, assuring me (and himself perhaps) that his years with the Sea Cadets will serve us well.

We can but hope.

Tally ho- the sky is bright and the morning is young. Before us lay some rather inviting islands- deceptively close by- the faintest yellow line of beach still visible to the eye. I expect we’ll head in their general direction.

It’s already been decided by the male members of the expedition that Mary and I are to head the crafts- which means steering.

Hmmmm…

Apparently this is the less strenuous position.

After a particularly awkward moment getting aboard, desperately trying to keep the bag dry; we’re off. I take a moment to absorb our surroundings; I have a notion that those lovely looking limestone cliffs are going to haunt us in one way or another. I feel like a little Frodo Baggins as I realize how heavy and cumbersome my oar is and that’s not to mention our kayak- which appears to be rudderless.

Heave Ho- no really- HEAVE HO. After just five minutes, I’m flagging. Being an idiot, I’ve completely forgotten about my bad shoulder- which has, despite numerous massages, totally seized up since carrying my back pack.

It would seem that canoeing and pulled shoulder muscles really don’t get on.

I’m in two minds to turn back- watching Rob and Mary steam past without a pant.

Yet those damn inviting Islands in the distance egg me on (not to mention Stef’s face which doesn’t look entirely happy with the prospect of defeat).

I would make some comments now about how beautiful things look out at sea in this paradisic little world, alas I can barley breathe through the pain, the sweat and the tears it takes to move our bloody kayak!

We soon realize that we’ve drawn the short straw with our rather inferior vessel. There aren’t even any backs to our seats, adding yet another burden to an already difficult task. Needless to say; things go pretty slow.

Despite the hard work, once we close in upon the first deserted island- it all seems worth it. It took us double the time we we’re told it would. Rob and Mary are already on land when we arrive.

We gratefully row towards our haven for the afternoon. Glad to be off the grave, open water that ruthlessly beat us for the last thirty minutes or so.

Upon closer inspection, it would seem that this island is not in short supply of coral reef. We carefully scoot around the bulbous creatures until we slide onto the shore.

First things first- we run about the shore like lunatics- yelling and jumping about. I don’t know why but deserted islands seem to have that effect on us.

The island itself is close to perfection; once again being hugged by some pretty awe inspiring limestone cliffs. The sand is light, airy and seemingly untouched. And then, of course, there’s the glassy blue water containing all manner of tropical fish and coral.

That’s not to mention the steaming green jungle behind this beauty, which every so often lets rip some rather unsettling noises.

Strange noises aside, it’s time to lay back and rest our tired arms. We stare up at the gigantic palms swaying against the azure sky, whilst Mary writes sweet nothings in the golden sand.

But we can’t sit still for long; kitted out with our snorkels, it’s time to explore the reef.

The first thing we notice is that there’s jelly fish everywhere and the water is swarming with their strange gloopy spawn.

Still, we press on, trying our best to avoid the odd little beings. There’s some great coral to explore and many fish to be seen. Mary has the ingenious idea of taking a stick with her- I think to get the ghost-like jelly fish out of her path. I try this, but cannot bear to touch them, even with a probing stick. Euck.

At one point I’m horrified as one of the critters brushes past my mask- total freak out for a few seconds. Thankfully no one sees my pathetic attempts to evade this attack.

Time is getting on and it seems the others wish to explore the rest of the islands. I’m not too keen on this idea as by the looks of things, the sea is pretty rough- plus I doubt my shoulders will take us very far. Rob and Mary seem energetic enough and Stef promises to do most of the hard-work.

I agree (reluctantly as I would much rather spend the day on this island and reckon that it can’t get much better than this) and we lug our crafts back into the water.

Of course Rob and Mary speed off and we notice (rather enviously) that their more dynamic looking kayak not only has proper backed seats but also a nice streamlined rudder.

It’s not before long we head into trouble. The wind is picking up around the limestone cliffs and no matter how hard we try, we seem to be going nowhere fast. This isn’t helped by the fact that our sailing companions are just mere dots on the horizon.

There’s no way Stef can manage on his own (despite his earlier promise) and I’ve no choice but to pass many a pain barrier and steer with all my might.

We eagerly row to the closest island. Something doesn’t sit right. Sure enough, in rather aggressive crimson paint are the words “Private Property”

Private Property indeed!

Dejectedly, we sink back down into our vessel; not only must we turn back, but face the mighty prevailing winds.

It takes all our strength to haul our kayak back around the limestone rocks. Needless to say, I take cursing to a whole new level. But mainly, I’m just panicked- my eye constantly on the fierce currents drawing us closer to the jagged perimeter of the previous island.

The wind is as atrocious as the obscenities pouring forth from my mouth.

There are lots of “told you so’s” and “what did I say’s!?”

And then of course; there is mutiny.

It’s hard to decipher just what Stef is screaming back in reply to me through the ear pinching winds, but I think it’s something about my bitching and his not caring because all the sun cream has run into his eyes causing acute blindness and pain. So, it’s something like-

“Arrggggh, Well, I can’t fucking see shit!”

Something like that.

This does not do much for my overall morale.

I think if it wasn’t for our inherent fear of sharks, one of us at this ugly moment would have jumped ship.

The words- we’re screwed come to mind.

So, what with a blind Oarsmen, handicapped navigator and some of the strongest winds I’ve ever felt (not to mention the sheer cumbersomeness of the actual kayak), it’s a miracle we make it back to the island at all.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to feel dry-land.

Indeed, Stef and I are much nicer to each other once our feet are both firmly on the ground and don’t mention the (almost) murderous mutiny that we were just minutes away from.

I even give his poor peepers an eye bath with our rationed water.

Secretly, I’m kind of glad we had to come back here, as I don’t see why we couldn’t have just spent the day here anyway.

We settle down to some mango munching and enjoy the breathtaking vastness of it all. It really does feel like a tropical Lord of the Rings or Skull Island type place. On a creepier note; it almost doesn’t seem real.

But then perhaps that’s just us watching too many episodes of The Prisoner a few nights back.

A couple of hours later, Rob and Mary return. They’ve managed to get around quite a few islands.

We spend the rest of the day floating on the seashore in our life jackets. From an onlookers point of view this must look like the scene of some hideous wreckage.

Before long, it’s time to head back.

The winds are stubborn in places and although Stef and I oar like a couple of bats on speed, we’re still left miles behind.

We vow to take the other kayak if we ever have the energy to go again.

I would like to say that in some fantastical turn of fate, all that oaring miraculously loosens up my poor torn shoulders- alas, the next morning I spend tucked up in bed, doused in a bath of tiger balm.

For the next couple of days Stef and I walk around like Sly Stallone; our shoulders feeling noticeably hench.

We both agree that being buff is overrated anyway, and obstinately agree that doing nothing is a far more rewarding occupation; even if it means giving up our new muscles.

Yet, although it brought about great pain and a near miss mutiny, today was something we will never forget.

The Long Road to Paradise

bear — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 15:37:00 GMT

After just an hours sleep and no time for breakfast, we’re not too pleased when our private bus decides to pick us up an hour late; meaning that there was enough time for breakfast after all but not if it’s to be served by our very “special” waitress (who cannot tell tea from coffee or butter from bread), who needs at least an hour to make a cup of tea.

We almost give up hope and resign ourselves to permanent residency at the illustrious D’ Lucky Garden Inn.

Thankfully, we’ve not been left behind; our bus arrives and we hurry aboard, grateful to be escaping. However, it seems that all the good seats have been reserved; we’re squished in the back, along with a young Dutchman, who Stef chats to about football for the entire 7 hour journey (how anyone can talk about football for that long is beyond me).

The road to El Nido is long (and that’s when there’s actually a road as such). At many points along the way you can see the frame of the incomplete road beside you whilst you jig about violently (thanking yourself that you decided to wear a bra).

Being so tired, I barely notice the hours wallop by; every so often being aroused rather brutally by a particularly spine shattering group of pot holes

Despite the off roading (I’m sure some people would pay good money for this kind of trek), the scenery is some of the best I’ve seen in the Philippines; lush rice paddies back dropped by dramatic mountain ranges that look almost like fallen dinosaurs. Thankfully the weather is dry and bright; apparently, when wet there’s a big threat from landslides along this solitary road. On more than one occasion I notice what looks like the aftermath of a slide as our bus meanders through some terracotta cliffs.

Halfway through the journey the concrete road disappears and things get very bumpy indeed- being in the back doesn’t really help the situation and at one point my head is pretty much touching the ceiling. For some reason I can’t help but let out a deranged grunt with every pothole- bloody hard work for just a sit down job!

We’re obviously relieved when we spy the epic limestone islands and cliffs that make up El Nido. Finally we’ve arrived.

We have no place booked which we immediately regret as everywhere our trike driver takes us are full.

Oopsy.

It seems kind of pricey here too. There also seems to be just a hint of that “this place is so beautiful it gives us the right to charge you the earth and not really bother to give you a good service” attitude. Or maybe that’s just my tired perception of things.

Still, accommodation is markedly more expensive here and we have little choice but to pay.

We find a small but newly built place which I forget the name of. It’s not exactly on the sea front, but it’ll do. The room is like a box but spotless. I flake out straight away, listening to the sea hitting the shore. Stef wonders up to OG’s (back packers hostel) to find Rob and Mary in the hope that they’re still there.

I wake up to some familiar voices- Rob and Mary are outside chatting to Stef. It’s good to see them- they’ve loved El Nido so much, they’ve extended their stay. We make a plan to meet the next morning for some kayaking to some of the islands. Apparently you can rent a kayak for about 700 pesos for the day.

Later, we get very drunk on the beach in a bar with a small chip-stealing monkey. This seems to be a habit Stef and I have developed whenever we arrive in a new place (getting drunk; not befriending small thieving monkeys).

Kayaking is going to be fun tomorrow morning…

Puking in Puerto Princesa

bear — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 15:34:00 GMT

After a ropey one hour flight from Cebu (Stef almost misses boarding due to another incident with a toilet), we arrive in Puerto Princesa in a rather bedraggled state.

We get picked up immediately by an over enthusiastic trike driver, promising us a free ride to a hotel in the hope that we’ll check in so that he gets his commission. We’re exhausted; we don’t argue.

The hotel turns out to be a whopping 5 minutes away from the airport. It’s dank, dark and overpriced. Stef looks ready to pass out; his white face almost illuminates the shadowy atmosphere.

We can’t stay here.

Instead we sullenly retreat to the Inn next door- hopefully entitled D’lucky Garden Inn. Perhaps our fortunes will improve here.

We’re given a newly refurbished room with AC for a not too unreasonable price; we’re only here to get Stef better so don’t complain. It’s still more expensive than some of the lovely beach front cottages we’ve had in the past, but then its right by the airport, so expected really.

Apart from sitting in their mediocre garden, there’s nothing else to do here, apart from getting a good AC fix.

Annoyingly our friends Rob and Mary are already in El Nido, celebrating Rob’s birthday. It looks like we’re going to miss that one as we still have to renew our visa’s here and somehow stop Stef’s stomach from doing somersaults.

We spend the first day cooped up in the wondrous Lucky Garden, feeling notably unlucky at having to chow down on their pretty disgusting food (it seems they can’t even get a packet soup right). With the only other restaurant around being a swanky French fine diner, we have no choice.

The sooner we’re out of here the better.

Alas, lady luck decides to hide from our garden the following day…quite possibly the worse day of our entire trip…

We start the day with some vile porridge and badly infused tea. We’re down to our last few pesos, so must go into town to withdraw some cash to keep us tided over during our trip to El Nido, where there’s no ATM. We also need a substantial amount to pay for our second visa.

It’s not hard to find a trike to take us into Puerto Princesa’s main town. Once again I have to create a makeshift mask to shield myself from the thick, boggy smog. It’s obstinately humid which creates an even thicker suffocating atmosphere. The town is full of Jollibee’s (Filipino Mc Donald’s), Dunkin Doughnuts and other such rubbishness.

We go straight to a mall, where we’ve been told we can get cash out. We try the first two machines with no joy.

Fiddle sticks.

Still, there are plenty of other cash machines about, so we head over to the next few across the street. No joy there either. Everyone else seems to be having no problem.

An hour or so later, Stef and I have almost exhausted all avenues, taking another trike to the cash machine furthest away. We’re both dripping with sweat (we now cover up every day from head to toe to prevent mosquito bites as Palawan is a Red Zone for Malaria) and getting decidedly ratty with each other. Very soon the Immigration office will be shut, which means will have to stay another day in the god awful Lucky Garden.

We begin to assume that there’s something wrong with Visa, instead of the other idea that our banks have frozen our cards. To test the later theory, we head back to the mall to see if we can make a purchase with my card.

The NCC Mall is a dastardly place with an over-the-top repertoire of Christmas pop songs to make even the sanest person pull hairs. It’s also extremely busy, hot and not exactly organized. Upon entering this commercial jungle we’re confronted with a couple of enthusiastic cleaners who’ve got the task down to a fine art, both mopping in a sycophantic, rather militant union. It seems sacrilege to disturb this duo of domestic soldiers; (Mr. Muscle would be proud) yet they’re taking up most of the entrance with their dramatic ninja style sweeps so that it’s near impossible to pass them, what with all the other gazillion shoppers swarming around like an army of unstoppable ants. There’s no choice; they must be stopped! I move them with my eyes (and utterly miserable stressed no- ATM face). They don’t look happy; but give me enough time to scoot on by to the supermarket’s entrance. For the second time my bag is searched (upon entering the mall, everyone must be searched); finally we’re ready to shop.

Oddly enough, my card works and we manage to purchase some cornflakes, milk and mosquito coils (the cornflakes, for fear of having no money for dinner).

Needless to say, when we leave the mall and try the ATM again, we’re even more confused when my card refuses to work. The time’s getting on now and the Immigration office will shut up shop soon. To add insult to injury it also decides to absolutely piss it down, making our ATM safari all the more dissatisfying.

A few hours later, we return to the aptly named D’ Lucky Garden, wet and penniless. We also have no visa, which means we have “luckily” landed ourselves another night in this wondrous establishment.

After a couple of skype sessions to our respective banks, it soon transpires that the fraud departments have stopped our cards.

With both cards back up and running again, we jump in the nearest trike and hot foot it to an ATM.

To celebrate the fact that we’re no longer penniless and forced to eat cornflakes for dinner, we decide to treat ourselves to a slap up meal at “Ditchays”, a tiny French bistro hidden away from the bustle; strangely placed in a very poor neighborhood. It’s certainly not the locals that are eating here. Still, after the day we’ve had, we need a little TLC.

The food is out of this world.

It’s hard to think we’re in a grimy, polluted city as I chow down on some spiced goats leg, cous cous and homemade yoghurt dip with a sprig of Indian coriander.

A delightful end to a disastrous day.

The next morning, we have a pretty painless time at the immigration office (or shack), grab some long sleeve shirts from a second hand market and manage to score ourselves a couple of private bus tickets to El Nido (the public bus is a notorious bumpy 7 hours).

It’s been an odd few days, fraught with bad food (apart from Ditchays), bad service (by an especially stupid waitress at D’Lucky Garden Inn who could never EVER get our orders right no matter how many times she was corrected) and general bad luck.

El Nido cannot come sooner!

Photos: Bohol

bear — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 00:25:00 GMT

Photos: Siquijor

bear — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 00:13:00 GMT

Photos: Dumaguette

bear — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Cebu Chunder Chowder

bear — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 23:59:00 GMT

Stef chucked up.

The end.

Going Nuts in Nuts Huts

bear — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 23:57:00 GMT

So, it’s time to leave the peace and tranquility of Siquijor behind and head back to smoggy Dumaguette for a ferry to Bohol.

The ferry to Dumaguette is fast and cheap. We don’t see any Dolphins this time, just a stream of sewage in the middle of the ocean with lots of coconut shells floating about.

We make it just in time for the next ferry to Bohol- but it costs a fortune compared to the other ferries that we’ve been getting. No matter- at least we’re on schedule. We want to get to Nuts Huts by sunset at least (a jungle resort in Loboc, Bohol).

For the duration of the journey we‘re treated to pot noodles and the worst sub titled version of Godzilla imaginable. If I’m honest I’m actually quite disappointed when the ferry docks as there’s still at least 30 minutes left- whatever happens to Godzilla’s eggs and more importantly, Matthew Broderick’s glittering career?

The ferry port at Bohol is kinda crazy- as soon as we’re outside the gates; trike drivers are shouting and hollering ridiculous prices at us. It seems Bohol is the more expensive Island; most probably because of the tourism generated by the Chocolate Hills and Tarsier monkeys.

Eventually we agree on a price with a trike guy to take us to the jeepney bus stop. We’re fast running out of time; dusk is setting in and we still haven’t got to Loboc.

There’s no need to worry about missing a jeepney- you can’t miss them; they’re consistently multi-coloured, often blaring out some spine tingling Emo and hurtling towards you in a rather menacing fashion.

Unfortunately it seems to be rush hour here in Tagbilaran, Bohol’s capital as every jeepney going to Loboc is rammed to the max; people hanging from the roof etc.

Stef and I begin to fret that we’ll have to stay in the capital for the night; unsure as to just how far Nuts Huts is (or where it is for that matter). Clearly, we haven’t done our research.

Just as I’m almost driven to smoking, a guy standing next to us assures us that we’ll be able to get on the next jeepney. He has an honest face and wears glasses; he must be telling the truth.

The next jeepney arrives (almost in my face), and sure enough it’s for Loboc; except it’s still rammed full of people, just not with ones hanging on the roof.

Before we can say “sardines”, the guy has hauled our bags onto the roof and the jeepney starts to move off; we have no choice- we’ve somehow got to squeeze on.

Jeepneys almost always have two long rows of seats (benches really) facing each other. On this occasion all the rows are taken, with kids upon kids and make shift benches in the only aisle with yet more people on; thus the whole vehicle is full with passengers and not a single pocket of space is free. Stef and I end up on the make shift narrow bench, back to back. I manage to rest one butt cheek on and balance the rest of myself between an older ladies leg. It’s most ungracious, but I’ve no choice, as the school girl opposite me stubbornly refuses to remove her knees to allow room for mine. Still, the older lady finds this all very amusing and reassures me with a very hearty smile.

Never before have I been so close to so many people in a very small (moving) space. Yet, everyone is smiling and friendly and this somehow relieves the incredible discomfort that I ‘m feeling. The journey is made in the dark and lasts at least 45minutes. Unable to see out the window because of all the bodies and unable to speak to Stef as his back is to me; I try my best not to get car sick.

I can’t say that I’m not relieved when the bus finally stops in Loboc.

At first we are lead to believe that the jeepney can take us all the way to Nuts Huts-brilliant news. Yet, as we go five minutes up the road, it stops by a little shack that informs us we must take a boat to Nuts Huts at a very disagreeable price. It’s now almost seven and we’re tired, hungry and in no mood to be ripped off.

We ask if there is any alternative in getting to this elusive Nuts Huts; we’re promptly dumped back in Loboc town centre and guided to the nearest gang of motorbike men.

At first I flatly refuse to jump on a motorbike with over 20 kilos of rather awkward effects. The men all chuckle conspiratorially; it’s the only way out of here.

I take the younger, more sober looking chap, whilst Stef takes the older, more, let’s be positive and say, experienced looking chap. My guy lifts my huge backpack up and plonks it in front of him. I have to put my lap top back across my back. I grit my teeth and pray that this guy has impeccable balancing capabilities, whilst I look over to Stef who is looking equally unsure and rather strained as he is made to keep his larger back pack on his back.

We’re off; zooming into the darkness and what looks like the ascent into a towering forest. I pray once more as the road gets steeper and windier, with sharp bends at every corner. I daren’t look behind me at Stef, in fear that any little thing will topple him and his load off.

I think my guy senses my unease (probably cause I keep repeating “oh gosh, oh gosh” at every bend), as he starts to quiz me with the usual chit-chat. How long have you been here? How old are you? Etc. This is where things get really confusing as in reply to the later question, the guys gasps and say’s-

“Oh, I thought you were forty.”

“Forty!?”

I retort.

“No,” he shouts over the engine, “fourteen.”

“Fourteen!?”

I don’t know which is worse.

I ask him his age, expecting an 18 or 20 and I’m bemused once again when he replies that he is 30.

Well, it’s just a number after all, and besides, the conversation does the trick and takes my mind off any imminent death scenarios. Apart from when, in some horrifying jerk, I see one of the long straps from my back pack flip up and whack the poor guy in the eye, causing the bike to momentarily lose control. Not funny in the slightest.

The journey continues like this for longer than I care for and is just about to get a whole lot worse.

Soon, we’re off the winding, sharp cement road and onto the road into the jungle, which is just rocky, bumpy gravel and very easy to skid on. It also appears to be getting very steep as we descend into yet even deeper blackness.

I think at this point Stef and I are both thinking the same bloody thing- we should have got that damn boat! (Also, where the f**k are we going?)

Finally, and I use this word with a huge bated breath- we dismount from the bikes and notice that we’re in the middle of some nowhere jungle. We also realize that if there’s no room at Nuts Huts (we hadn’t reserved), we’re pretty much screwed, as there’s no way I’m going back on those bikes!

It’s at this point that I ask the question- just where exactly is Nuts Huts? As, although we have appeared to stop, there are no welcoming gates; no lights even. The plot thickens.

Thankfully we have a torch and everything is soon illuminated in all its daunting glory- for before us lay an army of countless steep stairs leading into what looks like a bottomless pit of nothingness; there’s no end in sight on this wondrous rung.

Regrettably, I have the job of making the initial descent, whilst Stef waits with the bikers and bags. We still don’t know if there’s room at the inn. With each careful step, I pray that there is.

As I go down each knee shattering step, I kind of feel like Alice falling into the world of nonsense, as if I’m chasing some futile white rabbit. Where does it all end?

I even look back up into the darkness at one point, shouting up to Stef. He doesn’t hear me, I’m so far down.

And then, like the holy grail- I see lights emanating from a large bamboo hut with the comforting sound of humanity inside. Hoorah.

I’m properly sweating by the time I reach the reception/restaurant of Nuts Huts and must look an absolute mess from the journey. A friendly looking grey haired chap comes over, staring at me as if I’ve just dropped from another planet.

“You came from the stairs?”

He says, with what I think is admiration.

“Was I not supposed to?” I ask.

“The boat is easier,” he smiles.

You don’t say.

I gladly book us in for a couple of nights. The restaurant looks inviting and cosy with everything done out in bamboo. In the corner there’s a bed with bean bags and a very lazy looking tabby. I almost run back up the stairs to get Stef, so happy to finally be there. Halfway up, I lose breath and shout to get his attention, but again he doesn’t hear me.

By the time I get Stef and retreat to the restaurant, I feel like I’ve run a marathon and promptly order a beer.

We spend the evening in the restaurant, not yet aware that in order to get to our room, we must descend yet another army of stairs.

At first we take a hut with the name The Rising Sun (all the huts are named after films). It’s pretty basic, but it’ll do- besides we’re too tired to care. We get an early night- listening to the complete silence of the jungle and hoping that she and all her inhabitants don’t invade our tiny abode.

In the morning we take a freezing cold shower and realize that there’s no flushing toilet. That aside, we’re both taken aback by our surroundings, seeing them for the first time in daylight. It really is quite something. The palms are towering giants, the foliage densely rich, with tropical flowers dotted about here and there. Then there’s the river, a haunting shade of milky pea green. That’s not to mention the monstrous thick mountain range beyond the water- this would explain the shear amount of stairs.

As we make our way back up to the restaurant for breakfast we notice that there are many goats grazing around the huts. We also notice the jetty belonging to Nuts Huts.

By the time we reach the restaurant, we’re already sweating and breathless. Those stairs are no fun at all. We take a very leisurely breakfast, perhaps to put off the inevitable climb up to the bus stop.

After we get a takeout roll for our trip, we begin the torturous ascent. By the time we reach the top of the stairs, we’re both truly knackered. We haven’t even reached the bus stop yet!

There’s still a good fifteen minute walk through the jungle path leading up to the main road.

Gratefully, we don’t have to wait long for the bus. We gladly climb aboard and begin our trip to the Chocolate Hills.

As with all bus journeys in the Philippines, it’s bumpy, chaotic and longer than initially expected. Nevertheless, it’s a beautiful, scenic journey, through many mountainous forests and glistening rice paddies.

After getting off the bus, it’s another ascent for Stef and me, before the strange chocolate mounds come into view. They’re quite the spectacle, looking otherworldly and oddly reminiscent of the Sila tombs in South Korea (huge burial mounds for kings).

Unfortunately, it’s also a bit of a tourist trap, with bus loads of Japanese kids pounding up to the viewing point for five minutes, before pounding back down again, straight back on the bus, ready to make way for the next load to dismount.

Needless to say, we don’t hang around; deciding to jump on a bus back to the environmentally sound Tarsier sanctuary in Corella (there are many Tarsier spots, but most have been stolen and do not support the species in a responsible way).

Although the bus back seems to travel at the speed of light, it takes forever to get back to Loboc, where we must catch another bus to Corella.

The ride seems to vibrate right through to our very bones- by the time we get to Loboc, we’re both quivering wrecks. What with the initial gargantuan climb to the bus stop, the climb to the Hills and extreme bus ride, we both feel rather flu-like and decide to head back to the huts. There’s plenty of time for the Tarsiers the next day.

At first we attempt to walk back to the huts from Loboc- only to find out that the road is long and arduous; climbing up steep, winding forests. Naturally, we hail a trike for the rest of the way back.

We vow to spend the evening doing nothing; just relaxing in the restaurant, maybe snoozing in their hammocks or lounging on their bamboo bed.

There we meet an interesting older couple from San Francisco. The guy, Dennis is Filipino by birth and now gives talks all over about Filipino’s history in America. His wife (or girlfriend- we never asked) Avery was pretty cool too; we spend a couple of hours chatting to them about music, books, traveling etc.

The only bad thing about the evening is the food- it’s absolutely vile, and considering the fact that there’s nowhere else to eat it’s pretty annoying.

Both Stef and I begin to feel very queasy indeed- Stef even saying that he feels the way he did at the start of his pneumonia.

Dennis and Avery make an escape to the sauna (they’d been caving all day and needed to soothe their aching muscles- it was pretty hard going apparently), whilst Stef and I try out our new room (it’s cheaper and practically the same set up) named “Raise the Red Lantern.”

Aptly, our mosquito net is red and there’s also an oriental inscription painted in red on the wall but the shower is still icy and the toilet still needs a bucket to flush.

We go to bed feeling pretty grim, even putting off the Tarsiers for the next day, instead planning to do nothing at all.

After a terrible night’s sleep, we’re still feeling crappy. I had planned to swim in the river and find the tiny waterfall on the other side, but the thought of walking up those damn stairs just to have breakfast puts any other activity far from my mind.

On the way to the restaurant we spot a huge lizard hobbling along into the undergrowth; its funny little face looks very shifty. The jungle is alive with all kinds of insects, birds and bizarre noises. Both our legs are already ravished with fresh bites by god knows what.

Reluctantly we embark upon the hideous rung. Halfway up I have a minor panic attack as Stef spies a huge black millipede, also on his way to the restaurant. Yet hunger soon fuels me on and we order a breakfast and the first boat out of here.

Those stairs really seal it for us. What with our energy levels so low, we realize that there’s no point staying here, especially if we can’t even get up the steps to go out anywhere.

Without any hesitation, the staff promptly calls their boatman (probably glad to get rid of our miserable, panting faces).

After breakfast (the only meal it seems they can get right), we make the descent for the very last time; gladly.

I doubt my knees will ever be the same again.

We wait eagerly at the rather modest jetty (a small bamboo platform) and soon sight our boatman. This little cruise turns out to be the best part of our travels in Bohol. The views are stunning, we both feel like we’re part of the Apocalypse Now set. It’s all very tranquil and I doubt we’ll see anything like this again on this trip. To our right the mountain looms large, enveloped with trees; completed covered. The tallest palms hang out precariously over the river, their thin, sinewy trunks baffling the very concept of gravity. And then there’s the water itself, a large snaking pale body; seemingly inert. The whole experience feels totally surreal; first to be confronted with those militant, never-ending stairs and now to be gliding along one of the most serene rivers we’ve ever seen can only be compared to a dream (and a lucid one at that).

Needless to say, we’re sadly disappointed when the boat docks in Loboc. It’s time to jump on yet another jeepney back to Bohol’s capital for the ferry to Cebu.

We have a plan to pamper ourselves with a slap-up meal at Gustavian’s (a deli style eatery where you can fuel up on hummus, cold cuts, olives, mezze’s etc), an air conditioned room and plenty of massages before taking a flight to Palawan for a real slice of paradise.

Overall Bohol hasn’t been a complete waste of time; the chocolate hills we’re stunning and Nuts Huts, whist grueling to get to, had a novel charm about it.

Unfortunately, at the port we’re confronted with a woman carrying a half naked emaciated boy, covered in flies, hands out, almost taking Stef’s wallet before he’s even paid our trike driver. It’s the first time we’ve really experienced begging of this kind; it’s very disturbing.

Regardless of this, we’re treated to a very good Hawaiian style 4 piece band, all of which happen to be blind. They’re really good and we hardly notice the wait for our fast boat to Cebu.

On the boat, a rather rotund Filipino man is made to sit next to me, shouting into his phone like some Mafioso boss. I find this a tad irritating- not to mention a little uncomfortable as his fat arm is taking up all the arm rest.

To add insult to injury, we’re made to endure “Air Bud”, the cheesiest, crapest load of American rubbish I’ve ever seen (teen American dream drivel about dogs playing baseball etc).

When we finally dock in Bohol, poor Stef looks at me wearily and says-

“I can’t believe I’ve actually just watched that from beginning to end; every single second of it.”

I don’t think he’ll ever be the same again- positively defiled. Still, it gets us through to Cebu, where we enthusiastically await some mezze platter, good wine and a heat free slumber.

This one’s for you Mogwai

bear — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 23:54:00 GMT

On the way to Sandugan, we pass Larena’s small, sleepy town. It‘s quite hilly and has a laid back feel to it; nobody seems in a hurry here.

Our journey continues for quite a while after Larena, through a long winding road flanked by sky blue coastline and rich green forests.

At last our driver turns into a small off road. It’s deadly quiet; there’s not a soul to be seen. We pass a few farms and cottages; hear a hen cluck, a pig squeal, but that’s about it.

We then come to what I can only describe as a statement of the grotesque; a mock camouflaged fortress. It has about as much place here as an anorexic at an all you can eat buffet. It looks utterly disgusting- what the hell is it? And let’s hope it’s not the resort we plan to stay at- Islanders Paradise.

Thankfully we drive around the beastly building. I look back in revolted awe; it’s truly the vilest thing I’ve seen in the Philippines.

Anyway, to get to Islanders Paradise you have to walk down many steps with lots of cute flower pots dotted about. It looks very pretty and the beach is like something from a postcard.

I choose a cottage farthest from the rest; funnily enough named Christine (my Mum’s name). The cottage has a distinctive rustic charm about it; very cozy if not for the plastic lilies in the corner.

There are loads of dogs at this resort; we’re told not to feed them as they haven’t had their “injections”. Hmmmm. They certainly are very cute (and of course I’m going to feed them as most of them looks like skeletons).

The sea here is sort of strange- you can walk into it for miles and it will still only be up to your ankles. It’s not exactly sea to swim in (unless you’d like a face full of sand). The starfish are abundant here; you have to watch where you put your feet in places.

A guy comes over to our cottage and puts up a hammock and this is where this chapter ends really, as we do little else here on Siquijor, apart from bathe in the warmest sea water, eat some very good food, do some writing, befriend a dog, chop all of Stef’s hair off and essentially chill out to the max.

In fact, Stef’s haircut (administered by yours truly) is probably the most strenuous (if not to say traumatic) thing we’ve both done here. It takes about three hours, during which time there are many screams, tears and an altercation with my “morning glory” Korean scissors (which are incredibly blunt). It’s quite uncanny how I manage to make him look like a 1960’s soul diva in one chop and a monk in the next. And with no barbers in sight, it’s all very, very tense.

With that drama aside, it’s back to the chillaxing; Stef now a lot cooler around the neck.

Mogwai, as we like to call him due to his bizarre un-dog-like, alien ears, was definitely our most memorable experience of Islanders Paradise. For five days we had the pleasure of his loyal company. He acted as our personal sentry most nights and in return we would feed him bits of our dinner; such a lovely, good natured dog. Sadly, he had ticks and both Stef and I debated on whether we should remove them for him, but as we didn’t really know how to do that we thought it best to leave them be.

It was sad to leave him, but who knows, maybe we’ll be back to see him again someday…

A Royal Cliffhanger

bear — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 23:52:00 GMT

So far there’s no witchdoctors in sight or people with caved in noses or crumbling faces; although on the ferry we do spot a man with a very flat nose that kind of joins his forehead with no visible bridge. Poor guy- perhaps he’s going to Siquijor to get the problem resolved with a healer- who knows.

We want to head to Larena when we get off the ferry but somehow we’re convinced by a trike driver to go in the complete opposite direction. He takes us miles away; it’s all very scenic and lovely, but we cannot help but feel we’re on a wild goose chase.

We pass many beautiful beaches along the way and a small town which boasts a natural spring which is free for public use. Good stuff.

Eventually we find a reasonable place to lay our heads- The Royal Cliff. It pongs a bit of damp, but the resort is very idyllic- with hammocks overlooking the water and quaint little stairs leading into carved out coves and shoreline. Apparently the water’s good to snorkel in- perfect.

The menu’s not bad either, if a tad overpriced.

We stay here for a couple of nights to recharge and assess where to go next.

When we go out for a snorkel, the tide is very low and much of the shoreline is exposed to reveal countless weird wriggly things peeking through all the cracks and crevasses. They look like evil hairy starfish; dark and skinny. Things you certainly don’t want to touch. If we want to go out, we have to cross them; there’s no choice.

We climb over the alien critters like fractured old men; bow legged and jittery.

Eventually we get into deeper water and begin our snorkel. The visibility is not so good and there doesn’t seem to be any coral or reef as such. We see some fish but overall it’s a pretty deflating experience compared to the abundant, diverse beauty of Panagsama’s reef. Only, we don’t want to get out for fear of those ugly hairy wriggly things on the shore.

Once again we hobble over the strange writhing creatures and gladly clamber ashore. Not such a royal cliff now, more a peasant rock.

Panagsama’s reef has obviously turned us into quite the snorkeling snobs.

That night we get hideously drunk - taking our speakers to the hammocks, loafing about and generally rambling in a drunken fashion. Despite our intoxication, we still manage to spot a few constellations and appreciate the many fire flies lighting up our little den. Stef also manages to break his glasses, although we don’t find this out till the morning, when they just seem to fall off his face. Very strange. He has no recollection of dropping them, but there you go.

We spend the next day, yet again with our friends the hammocks- enjoy the overpriced menu and vow never to drink again…

The morning we decide to leave for Sandugan beach (there’s supposed to be some nice chilled out resorts there) we end up waiting for ages for a trike to appear- sweating in the noon sun, backpacks an all, like a couple of morons.

The road is long and seemingly deserted, with only a few motorbikes passing by. We start to wonder if we’ll be trapped at the Royal Cliff indefinitely. I retreat back to the main reception and ask the girl there about transportation. It seems ridiculously pricey; I head back up to the road, fully prepared to walk to the nearest town, even if it kills me.

Soon however, a trike appears. We eagerly thumb him down, perhaps a little too eager, as he quotes us an even more extortionate rate. He also lies blatantly into our sweaty white faces; apparently there are no jeepneys running today.

Whatever.

We smile through gritted teeth and tell him to go on his merry way. He assures us we’ll be stuck there unless we go with him.

I give him my sweetest smile (remembering not to piss off Siquijor’s locals and find myself hexed).

“It’s fine. We’ll walk.”

Suddenly, something catches his eye; he hastily turns his wheel and scoots off, leaving a trail of thick exhaust smoke in his wake.

In the near distance and as red as a berry, a shiny new jeepney comes into view.

It seems that we are saved.

Our bags are thrown on top and we happily climb aboard. Next stop Sandugan.

Photos: Panagsama

bear — Thu, 3 Dec 2009 01:04:00 GMT