doodles of barless bartender

In the social ladder, I am a new broke – one of the spoiled and bratty grandchildren of Manila’s prominent men who ran out of money to back their grandiose lifestyle and know nothing on how to survive the urban jungle on their own. Armed with hawk-eyed elitism, anything rather than pristine white beach getaway is unacceptable. Morong is quite the opposite; it is a shore of gray-hued sand from the volcanic rocks of the pacific. It is simply just another juvenile reprieve from the jaws of corporate monotony.

A hundred and forty four kilometers from Manila, Morong proved to be a problematic driving riddle to decipher. Signages are few and far in between while roads are tapered to deceive as if hiding a mute arsenal of the former US naval base. Irresolute driving threatened to wreak havoc on the already dissipating legendary weekend getaway as we pass Subic Freeport.
Nearly sundown, we take the final turn at a rustic olden church amidst the plush shanty towns that dots the shore.

“Welcome, Maligayang pagdating!”

The lady garbed in an ankle-length skirt that seems to have witnessed better days led us to the room. She must have been in her late forties. The door creaked as I slip past in the narrow hallway. Faded green walls betrayed the gleeful picture posted in the resort’s website. We had dinner and retired to the room in complete agony from dismay. Even the promise of a bottle of Jose Cuervo was defeated by the less than the usual. After a few bottles of beer I found myself enveloped with a thick blanket enough to escape my buddies harrowing snore just a few inches off me.

Waking up the next morning was a hard task. Resigned from the fact that trip was a mistake, I decided to run the shore to compensate for the lost weekend.

I was horrified to what happened next. Hoards of people flocked the beach, going down the bus one after another. There were at least 3 huge buses in sight. Unattended rugrats in the birthday suits litter the perimeter, completely unabashed with how the place is not vacation-quality. Children are enjoying the rusty boardwalk unaware of the perils of the corroding metal tower. All cottages were cramped to their capacity as the mothers prepare food for the whole of brood while fathers have already started with the booze for the whole day of merriment. The place was filled with odd but delicious smell of dried fish and fried rice, the perfect companion to break the fast. All hell breaks loose. It was utter chaos, it was mad. I trooped back to the room ready to pack.

No matter how many times people tell you that it is the journey that counts, it is extremely hard to settle for the consolation. More so look past the destination. But then again, I took off my shirt, sprayed tanning oil all over and decided to swim like the beach boy that I am.