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.
