Advertisement
Published: January 17th 2011
We arrived in Korea fresh and eager to begin work, only to find out that our school would be closing in a week for winter vacation. Of course, this was less than ideal since we had just been uprooted right before Christmas; a time when most people are winding down for the year, sitting by the fire with family and drinking eggnog, not moving to a new country. Regardless, we decided to seize the opportunity leave the freezing cold of Korea behind (reportedly, this is the coldest winter in 30 years, and last night the temperature plummeted to a dismal -17 C). The Philippines has been on my list for a long time, not only because of its stunning natural beauty, but also due to its rich culture.
Our flight over didn’t leave until Christmas evening, so we celebrated the holiday with a drink in the airport. Not especially festive, but Santa had taken sometime out of his busy schedule to greet children just outside of security. We arrived in
Cebu City late at night, and managed to finagle a metered taxi to take us to our hostel. The tropical heat was quite a shock after leaving Seoul,
and the neighborhoods of Cebu City looked quiet and decayed in the soft glow of streetlamps. Run-down buildings with graffiti splashed on the walls, empty trash-blown streets, packs of dogs roaming the alleys, Christmas lights, cathedrals, teens spilling out of 24-hour fast food joints, bougainvillea clinging to fences, and beggars sleeping in abandoned doorways.
Our hostel, an old colonial house with quirky artwork and geckos on the walls, was located in the uptown area of the city. Upon arrival, we staggered next door to the convenience store to buy water and shampoo. The little boy there working with his mom (at one in the morning) wondered if Craig was a cowboy and asked if he was from Montana. I would imagine he had just watched some kind of Western, and Craig’s height (or perhaps goatee?) reminded him of some sort of American gunslinger. He was about eight or nine, earnest, and spoke excellent English.
We stayed one night, and woke up the next morning feeling semi-refreshed for banana pancakes and shakes at the colorful but slow outdoor café. Back on island time. Also, as I gazed around at the clientele, I realized that we were back to an
Kawasan Falls
This is real: our own private swimming pool in the jungle. economically depressed area of Southeast Asia where Western men go looking for desperate women…who are apparently are willing to overlook age, appearance, and all sorts of vices for a fat wallet. At the table next to us, a pot-bellied 60-something with receding hair and an unpleasant sneer tucked into his plate, slurping loudly, while his 20-something, rail-thin Filipino girlfriend picked at her food and smoked a cigarette in silence.
We withdrew some money from what appeared to be the world’s sketchiest ATM and got a taxi to the bus station. Since this vacation had been completely impromptu, I hadn’t had time for my normal, borderline-obsessive planning and research. I didn’t know what to expect, and our plans were entirely based on a Google search for the “best snorkeling in the Philippines”. So we took the bus to
Moalboal .
The ride was perhaps the most harrowing of my travel career. The bus was old, creaky, and cramped. There had to be at least fifty bodies jammed into a space which would have reasonably held thirty at most. They piled in as many people (and their belongings) in as possible – small children balanced precariously on top of their
parents, old men teetering in the isle, vendors hopping on and off balancing water bottles and packages of nuts. It was uncomfortable, especially when the monsoon rains forced everyone to close the windows and the bus became oppressively stuffy. But what really took the cake was the maniac driver flying down slippery mountain roads, and passing other vehicles around blind corners. I was reasonably concerned for our safety, but more upsetting was how close he came to hitting various pedestrians, or clipping families of six who were piled onto motorbikes slogging over the mountain passes.
Seemingly, our fellow passengers, who I assumed to be accustomed to this kind of thing, were also clearly uncomfortable with the person (he looked all of fifteen years old) behind the wheel, letting out shrieks and gasps at all of his near misses. The surrounding countryside-lush mountains giving way to fertile fields and the dramatic sweep of ocean- was stunning. Our journey culminated with the driver entering the village of Moalboal and clipping the back of the van he was trying to run off the road. Considering, I am grateful the accident was minor and the damage to the other vehicle was barely visible.
Still, the driver of the van, a feisty woman barelt measuring in at five feet tall, was furious, and proceeded to chew out our driver as a crowd grew around us. She even took out her camera and took a photo while he stared back angrily. Soon the police arrived, looking un-impressed and lit up cigarettes while the woman continued to yell. They took some measurements, scowled, and debated. After about fifteen minutes the bus was allowed to leave, without us, who were more than thankful to have reached our destination in one piece.
We fell into conversation with JR, a tricycle driver (this being a motorbike with a sort of side car attached) who offered to take us to a hostel near the beach. About six kilometers from the village of Moalboal is
Panagsama Beach a dirt lane leading past a variety of hotels, restaurants, and dive shops. Infamous White Beach, living up to its namesake with a dazzling, postcard worthy expanse of sand and palms, is to the north. I found the area we stayed to be wonderfully low-key and refreshing. There is no beach to speak of and the coastline is rocky, making it
the bus from ...
This photo really doesn't do it justice... a poor locale for beach bunnies but excellent for diving and snorkeling.
The resort we stayed at was amazing. We spent our first night at a friendly, family-run pension with a sprawling yard located just a short walk from the water. However, we were forced to move to a more “luxurious” resort that took credit card, since there are no banks or ATMS in Moalboal (the nearest is an hour and a half away by bus) and we were worried about having enough cash to make it through the week. Still, including the room price, snacks from the mini-bar, meals, and snorkel rental, I spent just over three hundred dollars for the entire week.
We were also able to walk straight in and snorkel on a gorgeous section of reef right in front of our accommodation. The water was incredibly clear, and visibility remained clear in spite of the frequent rainstorms which sometimes swept in during the afternoons. There was a spectacular array of vibrant corals-a garden of texture and color like I had never seen before. About 100 meters from shore the reef suddenly dropped off into a sheer blue abyss. We saw the usual parrotfish and sea
snakes, triggerfish who appeared to be the cousins of our Hawaiian humuhumu, squid, surreal nudibranchs, seahorses, sea turtles, and graceful lionfish. Sadly, I don’t have an underwater camera, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.
We spent most of our time in the water, and the rest eating, strolling, or getting massages. Perhaps one of the most memorable occasions was our trip to
Kawasan Falls . Unable to sleep, I’d gone out for a walk at 6 am around the fishing village. It was still cool, the water calm and silver, the fisherman already out in the water. In the village the locals were just opening their shops, smiling and saying offering cheerful greetings. We went out snorkeling at 8, enjoyable save for the jellyfish stings.
After breakfast we bumped into JR again, who offered to take us to the falls in his tricycle. A handsome young man with a great smile, JR himself was originally from Mindanao, and relocated to Moalboal along with his entire extended family. In spite of the religious unrest he insisted Mindanao was a great place to visit, and felt it was generally safe for travelers. Not everyone we
talked to agreed, Celia, our masseuse, Celia, told us she wouldn’t go to the neighboring island because of “many gun people”. And when our caravan was stopped en route at a police checkpoint, JR told us they routinely check vehicles for correct license and registration in order to prevent the trafficking of guns and drugs from the controversial island.
The falls was a jostling, gorgeous 30-minute ride through lush foliage and small towns. We stopped just outside of Badian village and parked in the lot of a local church, and walked about half a mile along the banks of a gorgeous bamboo-lined river, passing by some local houses. JR told us that the many roosters in the yards, who he referred to as “hybrids”, were fighting birds. They were magnificent animals, with gleaming red and gold feathers. Apparently, cock-fighting is a massively popular past-time in the Philippines, and I found it heartbreaking that such beautiful animals were destined for such a cruel and painful fight to the death for the sake of entertainment. It seems that nearly every Filipino male participates in the sport to some degree. At dawn the crows of hundreds of roosters erupt, and during my
Journal
Lack of underwater camera forced me to be more creative... morning walks I often saw men young and old carefully preening and handling their prize possessions.
The lower falls was breathtaking, a thundering cascade of water forming a turquoise blue pool. Surrounding the falls were tables, rented out to local families who wished to swim, picnic, and relax. We hiked up a short, slippery trail to the second falls, which was completely devoid of people. The water was cold and refreshing, and we could swim under the rushing water to a cave at the back of the falls. It was truly one of the most beautiful places I have ever been - magical to a degree that I kept having to convince myself that my surroundings were real… not an artificial Las Vegas swimming pool or a Disney ride. The jungle was thick above us and a giant green beetle the size of my hand clung to a nearby rock. We finally tore ourselves away and were walking back when the sky exploded into an incredible deluge, turning the path to a river of mud. Undeterred by the monsoon, the local kids continued to play, swinging into the deep water and riding rubber tubes down the river, laughing hysterically
as one of their friends lost his tube to the current.
We headed back toward Moalboal and the rain stopped, leaving the palm fronds dripping and the countryside steamy and fresh. JR took us to his friend’s landscaping shop, which had a variety of orchids as well as several parrots and a cage of rather forlorn looking monkeys. Our favorite was the myna, an old favorite who we’d first become acquainted with at the Honolulu zoo. This particular bird was very vocal, shouting out, “I love you!”, “Guapa!” and whistling tunes.
One Moalboal resident we continually encountered was Angelica, the ringleader of a tenacious group of girls who sold necklaces on the beach. She would follow us around, waiting hopefully outside of restaurants and often walking back to the resort with us (“okay, but tomorrow you buy”). She was extremely bright, her father had been a fisherman, now deceased, and her mother supported the family-which included Angelica’s several younger brothers- by selling jewelry out of a makeshift stall. She spoke excellent English, and hoped to work in a restaurant someday. She told us that she was on winter break, but normally went to school, which hopefully is true. Regardless,
she worked long hours. When I went out walking at 6 am, I bumped into Angelica with her bag of plastic accessories. When we went out for dinner that night around 9, there she was again, bounding after us with a half-hearted sales pitch.
Thus the moral dilemma-should I buy a necklace? On one hand, it seems irresponsible to support a situation that has a ten-year old plying the streets from dawn until dusk, and it would be nice to think that if tourists opted not to buy the necklaces, then perhaps Angelica would have more time to spend in school or playing with her friends. Then again, her family is clearly in a desperate financial situation, and her mother is doing all she can to get by. Selling necklaces is perhaps a more innocent means of making money than other trades her mother could force her into. In the end, we didn’t buy any jewelry, and instead decided to make a donation to the Children’s Shelter of Cebu. I don’t know if this was the best decision, but the whole situation certainly got me thinking.
In Korea, parents spend thousands of dollars on their children’s education. English
Old Church
Taken from the bus somewhere outside Cebu City academies, math camp, private tutoring, piano lessons, and more English school. In fact, many Koreans are now sending their children to the Philippines to learn English, as it is a cheaper and closer option than the USA or Australia. One woman we met, who worked as a consultant for the government projects and several NGOs, told us Koreans had overtaken the Japanese in number of tourists to the country.
And yet here in the Philippines, there were young children like Angelica, and the little boy in Cebu City, who spoke better English than many of my talented Korean students. Both learned from necessity, but while the Koreans are aiming at the goal of attending an elite university and working for a major corporation, many of the kids in the Philippines are just doing what they have to in order to survive. The point I am making is not one in criticism of Korea…they have worked extremely hard to achieve their current level of prosperity, but it does make you think about how unfair life can be for some.
However, I don’t mean to paint a picture of the Philippines as dismal. It is a beautiful place, and most
Tricycle
Badian Village of the Filipinos we met during our trip were warm, friendly, and very proud of their country. Interestingly, many people we encountered were at least tri-lingual, speaking Tagalog, English, Cebuano, and often other dialects as well. They described the language of Cebu as “Visaya”, which seemed to have a heavy Spanish influence.
New Year’s Eve on Cebu was a great experience. After a long dinner we went out and sat in the water to watch the fireworks exploding all around us…even far up in the mountains and across the water on Negros. The spectacular display was mirrored by a natural lightshow under water, as brightly glowing phosphorescent algae danced like tiny stars in the water every time we moved.
The week went by in a whirlwind, and I feel as though I barely had a taste of all the Philippines has to offer. I hope someday I will get a chance to spend more time in the country, and explore more of its fascinating islands. Yet in spite of the cold I was happy to return to Korea. As we boarded the bus home, our driver stepped onto the shuttle, bowed, and took off at a safe speed
New Year's Eve!
You can't see in this picture, but Santa Claus was break-dancing in this bar across the water! toward Anyang. I sat happily in the plush leather bus seat, which I had all to myself.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.118s; Tpl: 0.017s; cc: 11; qc: 29; dbt: 0.0602s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
Deborah Bradbury
non-member comment
Wonderful, thoughtful
Hannah - I loved this blog entry. As always, the photos and writing were both great. I also really enjoyed your social observations. Very astute.