Moonlight Streams In The Philippines
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Manila, Philippines
Puerto Princesa Manila Romblon Island Moalboal Manila Batan Island Baguio Manila |
September 10-18, 2015
September 19-25 September 26-October 8 October 9-24 October 25-November 3 November 4-6 November 7-15 November 16-19 November 20-December 8 |
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Arrival
There was no longer any need to ask "Why am I here?" I knew the answer to that question now.
Calamitous thunder and lightning from a colossal storm greeted the plane's descent into Manila, a stark epitome of the uncertainty and inevitability that had characterized my journey over the previous ten months. The sun lay concealed by the roiling clouds, but its guiding luminescence could still be felt if not seen. Finally, here were the Philippines.
Calamitous thunder and lightning from a colossal storm greeted the plane's descent into Manila, a stark epitome of the uncertainty and inevitability that had characterized my journey over the previous ten months. The sun lay concealed by the roiling clouds, but its guiding luminescence could still be felt if not seen. Finally, here were the Philippines.
Manila
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The metropolis of Manila was densely laden with heavy traffic, and although I had by now discovered this to be an affliction inherent to most Asian cities, the cars moved in a particularly sluggish manner in this one. More often than not, my cab was idling rather than moving. The cab driver seemed to be unable to locate my accommodation at the San Agustin Residences, and while he appeared to be genuinely puzzled at that moment, with the benefit of experience I would later come to realize that feigning ignorance was a common ploy of cab drivers in the Philippines, a way to squeeze a bit more cash out of unsuspecting visitors. Somewhat devious, although at least they maintained a polite demeanor in their simulated fluster.
Metropolitan Manila is a patchy conglomerate of nearly twelve million people comprised of numerous smaller cities such as Makati City, where I spent my first few days. Nothing too special about Makati City unless coffee shops, shopping malls, and bars are your thing. I like one of those things, at times one and a half. Despite the tedium of the locale I was struck by the amiable nature of the Filipino people - at one point while crossing the street, a trio of cheerful older ladies proffered warm tidings and offered to guide me to some shops where I could buy new clothes; they vehemently insisted on not only accompanying me but also paying for the bus and railway fare to get there. I evened things up with them later by buying them lunch. After four days in Makati City I relocated over to Intramuros, a much more intriguing place. Intramuros (which means "within the walls" in Spanish) is the historic core of Manila. In 1571, upon defeating the Islamic natives the Spanish declared Manila as the capital of their colony. During the ensuing decades a formidable wall was constructed around Intramuros as the area grew to become the political, military, and religious center of the Spanish Empire in Asia. I checked into the White Knight Hotel in Intramuros. Shortly after that and on an unassuming day, I met Myla on a tidy cobblestone path just outside of the hotel. We wound up exploring much of Intramuros together - plus a few other places, as was and shall be seen - over the subsequent days, weeks, and months. We began in an old church. The San Agustin Church may not be the most physically imposing structure in Intramuros, but it does hold claim to being the most significant Roman Catholic building in a country that is 80% Roman Catholic. The San Agustin Church was the first religious structure built by the Spanish on the island of Luzon upon which Manila is situated. The current building is actually the third such church erected on the site - the first, built in 1571 and made of bamboo and palm, was destroyed by fire during an invasion by Chinese pirates in 1574; the second, built shortly after and made of wood, was also destroyed by fire during the funeral of a Spanish Governor-General in 1583; the third, completed by 1607, was made of stone which enabled it to survive to this day, even through the judicial flattening of Intramuros that was administered by the combined US and Filipino forces during World War II. I spent many moments in the San Agustin Church. Beyond the venerable arches of the building itself there could be sensed a serene influence that contradicted the apparent emptiness in that church and shone through the conflagrant lights of the candles placed upon the altar. It was a good place to think, or rather to not think. Since Intramuros is a fairly touristy area, Myla and I took advantage of the services of one of the numerous entrepreneurial fellows lining the streets in the form of a local horse and carriage jaunt. It only took an hour for our tired horse to traverse the walled perimeter of Intramuros. We made time to see Fort Santiago, an old stone fortress that was built into the wall and completed in 1593. Unfortunately, Fort Santiago is perhaps most well known for the fact that it imprisoned Dr Jose Rizal, arguably the greatest national hero of the Philippines, before his execution in 1896. Dr Rizal was an ophthalmologist and writer, and his writing in no small part inspired an anti-colonial revolution against the Spanish colonialists. The Rizal Shrine now exists within the fort, to remember the man. Our impermanent reverie in Intramuros ended after nearly a week, and yet Myla and I decided to keep a good thing going and so we caught a flight to a different part of the Philippines for some relaxation. |
Manila by day.
Cannons lining the walls of Intramuros.
Lunch at the White Knight Hotel.
The graceful arches of the San Agustin Church.
A striking painting in the San Agustin Museum.
Inside Fort Santiago.
Dinner at the Sky Deck View Bar.
Intramuros by night.
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Puerto Princesa
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We were picked up at the airport in Puerto Princesa, the main city of Palawan Island in the west of the country, and promptly whisked away to our lodgings at Paboreal Hotel. The hotel's owners, Enrico and Lito, bestowed warm salutations upon us. Enrico had grown up in France and had travelled much of the world during his extended time in professional theater, and after considerable thought he had decided to spend the rest of his days in the Philippines. Enrico was a lovely, endearing fellow, and as he was explaining the layout of the place to us he gave Myla and gracious nod and said to her, "Your country is beautiful."
Several days into our stay, Myla and I took a small bus for two hours to visit the Puerto Princesa Subterranean River National Park. This park holds an abundance of limestone karst mountains and contains one of the "New" Seven Wonders of the World - the Underground River, a nearly 30 kilometer long stretch of cave that winds through a series of larger chambers. The guide, who loved to sing his own songs - badly, unfortunately for us - took our adventurous little boat in a couple of kilometers. Sounds more romantic than it was; ultimately, the Underground River was a rather musty old cave with the usual stalagmites and stalactites and other formations that make a cave a cave, and yet it was still worth the day to see such a sight, even if that sight was mostly draped in blackness. Several more days into our stay, we spent the afternoon hopping from island to island in Honda Bay, another famous attraction in the area. What can I say? It was amiable, somewhat touristy but not too bad. Towards the end of our time in Puerto Princesa, Enrico and Lito took us out for a marvelous dinner at one of the city's more notable restaurants. We were treated to further chapters of Enrico's fascinating life story, and at the end of a beautiful evening he and Lito absolutely refused to let us pay for anything. Yet another kind gesture from the Philippines. Myla and I returned to Manila for a few days after which she departed to her hometown of Mahaplag on Leyte Island. I carried on solo; time to dive. |
View at dusk from Paboreal Hotel.
Entering the Underground River.
Dinner at Kalui Restaurant.
Boats lining the shores of Honda Bay.
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Romblon Island
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The Philippines is legendary for scuba diving. I decided that my first stop would be Romblon Island, near the center of the country.
Romblon was not the easiest place to get to, but after taking an abandoned airplane, a zippy bus, a fishing boat, and a motorized tricycle I made it to the Three P Resort. I had an hour to kill waiting at the dock before commencing the boat ride and was kept company by some local kids as they performed a variety of death-defying stunts off the dock. I arrived at the Three P in the evening somewhat hungry; fortunately, I was treated to a huge dinner of shrimp and tanigue fish, and I even had some company in the form of a happy Italian family who educated me on the dismal economic plight affecting their country. The Italians departed the next day, and I had the place to myself for most of the week. The Three P was rustic as far as resorts go, exactly what I had been looking for. The name is derived from the fact that it was established by the three brothers who run the place - Peter, Philip, and Patrick - all of whom grew up in Germany and relocated to their mother's home island some years ago so as to exchange the fast pace of Germany for the more relaxing atmosphere of the Philippines. Seems to me they made a good choice. The brothers took turns taking me out scuba diving and showing me around the coral structures and accompanying underwater life surrounding Romblon Island. I stuck to a pleasant routine the first week - breakfast, a morning dive, lunch at Marlin Restaurant, an afternoon dive, and an early night to bed. There were many forms of life, some of the more memorable ones being the colourful nudibranchs, tiny gastropod molluscs that permeate warm, shallow reefs all over the world. The body forms of nudibranchs vary tremendously and their colours can be quite vibrant. Despite my easygoing daily ritual and the fact that scuba diving is the most relaxing activity in my world, it still consumes a lot of energy such that I wound up retiring early at the end of each day. Towards the end of the first week I rented a decrepit Husqvarna 310 motorcycle so as to ride the circumference of the isle; it only took two hours. Since I didn't trust my motorcycle - at one point while giving Philip a ride, one of the rusted foot-stands broke off - I donned a helmet on every ride. I was the only rider wearing a helmet on all of Romblon Island. Maybe the first ever, who knows. In the second week of my stay, I moved to the Marlin Bar as all four cabins of the Three P had been fully booked in advance, three of them by a trio of diving legends - Jerome Kim from Korea, Tim Ho from Malaysia, and Scott "Gutsy" Tuason from the Philippines. These guys possessed some serious diving equipment, with Jerome and Scott hoisting huge and sophisticated underwater diving cameras. I got to know them reasonably well, especially Scott who often delighted in exhibiting his stunning underwater photography to the oohs and aahs of everyone in the vicinity. Scott happened to be the country's foremost pioneering black water diver, which is a variant of night diving. In black water diving, the boat is taken out over an area of ocean with a depth of at least one kilometer or more, ropes with glittering lights are hung twenty meters (60 feet) from the edge of the boat, and you wait in the boat as hosts of alien lifeforms, attracted to the lights, migrate upwards from the oceanic depths. Crucially during the waiting period, Scott explained to me that one or two beers are necessary, and that Pearl Jam must be cranked as high as possible; his battle song was "Porch" and if that song wasn't played during suit-up, Scott considered his dive jinxed. The excitement before a black water dive was palpable; this was a strange kind of scuba, and perhaps as a result of the uncertainty of what lay below the boat the atmosphere was always carefree and jovial prior to leaping into the water. I suppose the beer helped too. On my first black water dive I had no camera, which actually provided me the opportunity to adjust to the dearth of spatial orientation as well as to the outlandish nature of the creatures in the water with me. Diving in bottomless darkness made spatial orientation impossible without using the lights as a reference point, and with the powerful current that night I could not allow myself to be distracted by anything for more than a minute lest I be rapidly carried out of sight of the lights. Indeed, this happened to one of our professionals - he was concentrating so much on getting that perfect picture that he lost the lights and had to surface upon realizing that he was disoriented and utterly lost, forcing Peter to ascend so as to locate him from the surface. The creatures in the water were truly mystifying - everywhere I looked there was something weird, a myriad of bizarre lifeforms drifting past in the affectation of an obscure dark dream. I was given a real treat towards the end of my first black water dive when a box jellyfish half a meter in length floated gracefully within arm's reach. Some of these animals produce extremely potent venom that can be fatal to humans, and while I was confident that my nylon suit could not be penetrated I was less sure about the sunscreen I had applied to my exposed skin areas; although sunscreen works well to prevent the stings of smaller jellyfish, I opted to remain motionless as that beautiful, venomous creature meandered by. I was the stranger in this world, not it. I did more than black water diving on Romblon Island, such as trekking the highest mountain on the isle with Scott, lazing away on San Pedro Beach, and spending evenings mingling with the handful of local foreigners who called the isle home. There was no shortage of things to do, and the fact that Romblon Island was still a relative unknown on the travelling scene made it even more special. The only incident that was not special occurred en route to the airport. Upon disembarking from the crowded boat onto the next island, hitching a ride on a motorcycle seemed to be the only way to get there. Something inside me told me to wait for a motorized tricycle and yet I had a plane to catch, so against my better judgement I got on a motorcycle with a guy who seemed to know what he was doing. He didn't. He rode too fast and I should have told him to ease down, particularly when he attempted to take a wet corner at 70 kilometers per hour. The bike skidded out and we took a dive. As I stood up I noted a distinct lack of skin on my right wrist and hip - thankfully I was wearing jeans - and momentarily contemplated that I should have listened to my secret dictate. The other guy was alright aside from superficial wounds and a ripped-up, bloody shirt. He insisted on taking me the rest of the way and I said sure, as long as he promised not to go over 40 kilometers per hour. Upon arriving, the poor fellow peered up at me and said "Sorry sir." I smiled. "It's ok brother. You need a new shirt." |
Greetings from the locals.
Dinner of shrimp and tanigue fish.
Clouds dancing above the water.
Few things are as relaxing as scuba diving.
Up close with a colourful nudibranch (photo taken by Philip).
Hanging with a gorgonian, or sea fan.
Yet another colourful nudibranch (photo taken by Philip).
Getting into the Pearl Jam zone before black water diving with Peter and Kati from Germany, Jerome from Korea, and Scott from the Philippines. You can see Jerome's (or Scott's, I'm not sure which) supercamera at the bottom.
Close encounter with a box jellyfish, beautiful and venomous (photo taken by Scott).
Visit from a small squid (photo taken by Scott).
Some kind of transparent fish; if you look carefully you can see its brain and other internal organs (photo taken by Scott).
A sumptuous meal with the crew.
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Moalboal
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My next diving destination in the Philippines was further south, in Moalboal on Cebu Island. Due to numerous flight setbacks it took all day to get there before I finally arrived late in the evening.
I resided at Love's Dive Resort, a modest locale offering a superb selection of scuba diving sites. Following my first morning dive, I rented a compact underwater camera so as to try my novice hand at underwater photography; Scott's pictures must have inspired me. I reckon one in every ten photos turned out alright. The only other scuba divers at Love's consisted of a party of a dozen or so Germans, all lovely people. I was the only one in the group never to wear a diving suit of any kind during the day dives; it was just too hot out of the water, and the cold did not bother me in the water. My perennial refusals never ceased to amaze the Germans, and they often exclaimed so in their stoic English. "Are you not cold?" The customary query. "Nope, not really." The honed response. While Romblon Island surpassed Moalboal in its isolated charm, Moalboal boasted a more preeminent diversity of diving locations, most of which I frequented amidst my eight-day goulash of day and night dives. Moalboal had it all - frisky schools of fish, giant nosey turtles, dour inquisitive shrimp, and other queerer things that I could not identify. Without a doubt, my most indelible dive occurred when our group was enveloped by a gargantuan school of sardines as it incessantly morphed into a swirling multiplicity of configurations in a glorious effort to enlighten us on the disposition of static motion. Several days into my Moalboal experience I heard again from Scott, who serendipitously happened to be visiting the area over the next few days. Did I want to join him for some more black water diving? In Scott's own words, it was going to be epic. Only one possible answer to that. Scott was staying at a different resort called Club Serena, owned and operated by the family of his buddy Quintin, who graciously sent a car to pick me up from Love's. The three of us readied our gear and conversed nonchalantly while waiting for the full moon to rise on Devil's Night. Quintin was a most generous fellow, charging me a token fee for the ride, the equipment rental, dinner, beers, and the use of the boat with which we went black water diving. Quintin had rented a massive fishing boat to take us out over a deep area of ocean, and the captain and his crew were polite and professional. We listened to Pearl Jam all the way out, and spoke about what might be seen. Despite being a veteran of hundreds of black water dives, Scott's persisting elation about it stemmed from the fact that in the black water universe he usually encountered some underwater denizen that he had never visualized or even heard of before. It was then that I understood the secret appeal of black water diving - while the pitch black disorientation is refreshing, the absolute uncertainty regarding what might be seen is truly exhilarating; the ascending pelagic throng of critters is the largest migration on the planet, an inconspicuous nocturnal saga that few humans will ever glimpse. We did two black water dives. I tried my best to procure some tolerable images, but via an amalgamation of inappropriate camera settings (minor factor) and my own inexperience at underwater photography (major factor), nothing good came of it. It was incredibly difficult to take a picture of a small pulsing or gyrating animal as it drifted erratically towards me while simultaneously trying to float in tune with the animal, just close enough to get a shot in focus yet far enough not to accidentally touch it, while also pulling my head away at regular intervals to ensure that I was not drifting too far away from the lights hanging under the boat. Upon surfacing, I discovered that the photos were all blurred. Scott of course gathered some exquisite photographs with his supercamera and vast experience, and upon returning to Club Serena we had a festive midnight dinner and hovered over his pictures. Some of them are going into his next underwater diving book, I am sure. There had to be a round two after that, and the three of us ventured out again the following Halloween Night for two more black water dives. These dives went more smoothly for me - not only did I witness an abundance of peculiar lifeforms, I actually managed to acquire a handful of semi-decent images of the more grandiose ones. My choicest photos were still nothing compared to the shots that Scott obtained; I had by now realized that in order to seriously partake in black water diving, a more powerful camera capable of taking quality portraits of tiny things was a must. Perhaps one day. Upon spending yet another midnight dinner at Club Serena with Scott and Quintin, with Quintin again refusing to charge me more than a pittance for the evening, I returned to Love's and did a couple of more day dives during my last days in Moalboal. After those black water dives, the day dives were still pleasant, but somehow they just weren't the same anymore. I returned to Manila. |
Reef life abounds in Moalboal.
Turtle inspection.
Banded coral shrimp venturing out at night.
Sardine vortex.
Rendezvous with a lionfish, regal and venomous.
Fish funnel.
Getting ready for black water diving on a calm dark night.
Flying fish seeking light.
Visit from a ctenophore, or comb jelly.
Comb jelly in all its black water glory.
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Batan Island
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Myla and I met up again in the Henry Hotel in Manila, a grand old building more reminiscent of a heritage site than a hotel. We didn't stay long. It was time to head to the far north of the Philippines, to Batan Island, a place that I had read much about; I looked forward to a brief tarriance there.
Batan Island is the largest isle in the archipelago province of Batanes, the northernmost and smallest province of the Philippines. Batanes has a unique topography compared to the rest of the Philippines, with about half of it consisting of hills and mountains. The countryside of Batan Island is dotted with lighthouses and grazing cows, a pastorally romantic venue if there ever was one. Most of the people living there are stake their livelihoods on either farming or fishing. It's a quaint, quiet place. Myla and I checked into Bernardo's Hotel, a sufficient abode but nothing to write home about other than a polite young fellow named Angelo who worked there and helped us out more than a few times with the little things that matter. Time seemed to stand still during our week on Batan Island, in a good way; everyone did things at half pace, and the whole island seemed to be insulated from foreign influences to an even greater extent than Romblon Island. We rented a couple of shabby bicycles with which to reconnoiter the isle throughout the week. Given the temporal distortion as well as the paucity of other foreigners, Myla and I often felt like we had the whole of Batan island to ourselves. Riding along the merger where rugged green coastline met sparkling blue ocean provided a sensation of freedom like no other. The locals often glanced up from whatever they happened to be doing as we rode by, cordially waving or smiling in an obeisant manner. It was not the first time nor the last that I was yet again struck by the hospitable nature of the Filipino people. Batan Island afforded many places to visit; I shall only mention a handful of them. The Basco Lighthouse on the northern end of the isle was notable for being the first lighthoues built in Batanes, and the day we came by saw us as the only people to sit on top of it for an hour while taking in open vistas of the encompassing lush hills and endless seas. We also experienced a solitary visit to the Santo Domingo Cathedral, an impressive stone structure refurbished and rebuilt many times over the years since its predecessors were all constantly annihilated by typhoons or earthquakes. It was a delight to ride along the clifftops to the modest town of Mahatao located towards the southern end of the isle; the town may be modest, but the scenery about it was nothing short of breathtaking. Since there were few foreigners on Batan Island we ate largely Filipino cuisine. One of my favourites was pinakbet, a vegetable medley containing pork and prawns. Myla insisted on indulging herself with a breakfast of dried fish every morning. I don't mind dried fish, but it's not something I would eat on a regular basis. Batan Island is one of those rare places in the world that words really cannot do justice. It must be experienced. If a ruggedly beautiful undiscovered gem of an island filled with secluded adventure and surrounded by amaranthine seas sounds at all appealing to you, Batan Island is the place to be. We set out for our next destination. |
Basco Lighthouse watching over the ocean.
Myla posing with her bike.
Batan Island is hilly and mountainous.
Brief rest after a bit of a climb.
Myla gliding along the ocean's edge.
Lunch, including the standard dish of pinakbet.
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Baguio
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Upon returning to Manila, Myla and I caught a bus to the city of Baguio located a few hours to the north. Baguio is the center of commerce on the northern half of Luzon Island, and it's also a university town. There's plenty of hustle and bustle there. Its climate is what makes it unique though.
Since Baguio was erected along the tops of mountains it is situated at an altitude of 1,540 meters (5,050 feet) and therefore vaunts a cool climate as well as a plenitude of tropical pine forests, a pleasing contrast to the often excessive heat and jungle growth prevalent in most of the Philippines. In 1903, Baguio was designated the "summer capital" of the country; during the summer, the government moves there to avoid Manila's lowland heat. Myla and I had four days in Baguio, and we spent most of them in strawberry farms and parks. Myla had never seen a real strawberry plant, and since Baguio is particularly well known for its ability to grow these shrubs, we made a day visit to one of the strawberry farms. It was charming enough for me, but I reckon Myla felt like she had died and gone to heaven. Chocolate was not the weakness with this girl - strawberries were. In terms of parks, the best of them was Wright Park, particularly notable for its many secluded spots where it was possible to retire from the sights and sounds of the city so as to listen to the breeze as it drifted endlessly through the soaring treetops, the sun a mere spectator to this eternal discussion. We spent half a day in Wright Park. It was tranquil. We returned to Manila by bus and whiled away some of the travel time eating persimmons, a delectable kind of fruit. Myla joined me in Manila for my last couple of weeks in the Philippines. For our concluding night we wandered over to the White Knight Hotel in Intramuros, the place where we had met nearly three months before, the place where I bade adieu to the moonstone girl who had influenced my journey in more ways than can be told. |
The mountain city of Baguio.
Baguio is the place to be if you love strawberries.
Here is one such strawberry fanatic.
Serenity found in Wright Park.
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Departure
The Filipino people are the true jewel in the Philippines; they combine a genuine sense of hospitality with an offbeat sense of humour like no other country I have visited. As to my own impressions of this place, perhaps they are best summed up by my favourite quote, "Things are not what they appear to be; nor are they otherwise." I had initiated this ten-month journey in the sincerest of efforts to break my internal chains, to do the inner work so as to gain a clarity of vision - via my experiences of Sri Lankan kindness, a Nepali dream, and the foreseen road not taken in Myanmar; through confronting fear in Thailand, an inner darkness in Cambodia, and indecision in Vietnam; and finally, by virtue of something more in the Philippines, had I searched for this elusive objective. Was I ultimately successful in the endeavour? Yes and no. There had been a transcendence to be sure, and yet still I possessed no discernible perceptions of what might be forthcoming next - I am left wondering, and wandering. In the end, perhaps that was the point after all...this is Vigil.
