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Published: December 24th 2011
Coron Bay
Looking pretty in the sunlight.It’s lovely to be here in Palawan, but we’re underwhelmed by Coron town. We’re surrounded by islands harbouring secret lagoons and coral reefs, but the town is hot and dusty and noisy. We’re frazzled from dragging Elliot on and off planes, in and out of vans, up and down stairs. Our view from the Coron Gateway Hotel is of the jeepney station, a dusty square littered with metal destination signs, dogs rutting and a huge Christmas tree. It shimmers with heat.
The next day, our perspective changes. Skimming over the waters, the bothers of our travel days slough off. We’ve got a boat called Katrina Dea. Our captain, Lar, has ‘sailor’ tattooed on his left bicep. Boatman-cum-babysitter, Ern, has a body is roped with sinew and tight bulges of muscle, skin dark and lined from the sun. Elliot reaches for him straight away.
We tool around, seeing the sights. Kangayan Lake, the Twin Lagoons, some coral reef or another. Elliot plays on the boat while Duncan and I share a set of flippers. At the lake, Ern glides up and down the rocky, uneven trail, Elliot secure and giggling over one shoulder. Duncan and I follow further and further
Coron pier and market
Much prettier from afar. behind, slipping and stalling, puffing up the steep rocks, carrying way too much stuff. We’re so white.
Later, Elliot is rocked to sleep on the boat, lulled by the rhythmic bobbing. He stays asleep in his stroller, parked on the beach of a small island, while Duncan and I swim and eat our barbequed fish lunch.
Next day, same thing. The water is much rougher. It’s a long way to where we’re going and the boat tips and rocks through a patch of unprotected sea. Elliot cops a big splash over his wedged stroller. A moment of surprise, then laughter. Phew.
The boat pitches towards a black buoy being tossed around in the middle of it all. Suddenly Ern is off the boat, swimming towards the buoy with a rope. Waves crash around us and Duncan and I look at one another—we’re snorkelling here? Yes. We owe it to the now drenched Ern.
“Gun boat,” we’re told. In we go. Water gushes into our snorkels and fish are swished around in the swell with us. One turn around the sunken hull and we’re spent. Getting back on board against the crashing waves is inelegant and funny.
Buying lunch
Lar wheeled and dealed for us, and cooked it all to boot. Again, we’re so white.
In the afternoon, we snorkel at the Coral Gardens, then head home through mangroves, a much calmer route. Coron Bay twinkles before us in the afternoon sunlight, far more attractive from the water than the land.
That night, we lie in separate beds, Elliot asleep on folded blankets on the floor between us (no crib at this hotel). Carols blare from the lit-up Christmas tree in the square till 10pm, when the town power cuts out. We know tomorrow morning we’ll awake to the squealing of pigs, the splutter of tricycles and the hot Palawan sun peeking over the islands. We also know that tomorrow night we’ll be at Club Paradise, and hope and hope that it lives up to its name.
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