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Established in the 16th century, Vigan is considered the finest surviving example of a Spanish colonial town in Asia, with a unique European atmosphere… said the narrative. The logic: The Philippines was colonized by Spaniards centuries ago, these buildings are old, and Spain is in Europe. A ‘European atmosphere’ we weren’t to find, though there is no doubting Vigan is a quirky anomaly that doesn’t conform to an easily definable Asian cliché.
Dig a little deeper and you'll discover that the town’s original Chinese name "Bee Gan" became Vigan due to the Spanish penchant for mixing their B's and V's. Many of those old colonial buildings were constructed in an apparent Chinese/Mexican architectural mezcla by elite Chinese Creole families who adopted Hispanic family names, and live on to this day.
Tourists visiting Vigan customarily take horse-drawn carriage rides along the cobblestoned streets to explore the city's sites -- an old-fashioned form of transport to match the scene of old-world colonialism…It seemed like the kids would enjoy that too... We all did. However whilst in Vigan we were reminded that when travelling, dropping your guard for even a nano-second may lead to you never seeing your prized possessions
again. Travelling with kids is exponentially more complicated; with Mandalay scalding her little hand on one of those water dispensers in the hotel lounge. It seemed pretty serious at the time, her baby skin peeled open, blistered, and she screamed inconsolably for-ever, until she ran out of energy.
From Vigan we’d need to travel down the coast to Baguio City and catch another bus to swing back up through along the spine of the mountains to Bontoc, if we wanted to get to our next destination, Sagada -- said the guidebook. The map suggested this was a very circuitous option and that there was a more direct route straight through and over the mountains. I conferred with Thorntree's resident naysayers who offered up their objections to a journey they’d never taken, and we had all the information we’d need. This shortcut would potentially take longer with less convenient transport connections, yet involve less actual bus time.
Fuelled by the challenge of achieving the seemingly impracticable we started out on the bus to Baguio City, and bailed at an intersection where we quickly located a mini-bus which would take us over the mountains to Cervantes. Actually the minibus was
going nowhere currently as It needed eight more passengers before it would be full-enough to depart. In the meantime we went traipsing through a local market for some provisions as it began to rain.
After around an hour or so we had only managed to attract a further three passengers and so I decided to move the departure time to now, by paying for the remaining empty seats, which would hopefully allow us to arrive at our destination before nightfall. I cannot now recall how much a seat cost for one person, let alone five. And, therein lay a lesson. Ten years ago I’d have likely waited all day and night for that mini-bus to fill, then sat on the roof to save myself 20 cents. These days with the kids and a slightly bigger budget, my priorities have changed. If time is money, why not use a little money to buy a little time?
In actual fact, we only hit the road for about two-kilometers, as the driver - in his world space equates to money - decided that paid-for void could be put to an even more profitable use by stuffing it with a few barrels
of gasoline we picked up along the way.
We passed up through the Bessang Pass National Park, resembling flashes of Hawaii -- made all the more special as always by the realization you are off the beaten track. Next morning after an evening’s wandering around town for food and local transport research, we caught the daily rickety bus up through the mountains to Abatan to rejoin the main road in torrential rain.Then we a shared a minivan or two to our final destination of Sagada.
Sagada had been recommended to me more than once down through the years, and along with its incongruously cool alpine climate, hikes and waterfalls, the main reason to visit is to see the “hanging coffins”, a local burial practice shared in southern China and perhaps most famously in Toraja, Indonesia .
Yet due to the confines of this blog-length I will limit my shared experience of Sagada to that which I remember most profoundly; and that was the hike down into the caves, and the fact that one night in a restaurant I noticed everyone (everyone!), taking photographs of their food. I’d like to offer up an explanation for this,
a shot at a theory, but alas this isn’t my area of expertise. If the food began performing when the tourists pointed their camera at it, I would be somewhat qualified. But no, this isn’t the food performing; this is people performing the food they ate.
No Irish, no Blacks, no Dogs... no Tourists?
After winding our way down the mountains from Sagada we arrived in Bontoc to learn the Jeepney to Banaue had departed just minutes earlier. And so I took the bull by the horns and pitched the driver of our empty waiting Jeepney to chase the departed Jeepney, so we wouldn’t have to hang about all day in the rain for it to fill. He decided to take the challenge and after about fifteen minutes we caught them as they were exiting the cities suburbs. I gave the driver of the chase vehicle a little tip and noticed he was also able to pocket a little extra commission from the lead vehicle also. Back he returned to Bontoc, with a smile and wave, as we squeezed in to our new ride.
It
was a long, rainy, misty and picturesque day’s travel down to the Switzerland of the East...or was it Shangri- La? I get the clichés muddled. No, this was "The Eighth Wonder of the World". The rice terraces of the Philippine Cordilleras are a living cultural landscape that can be traced back over 2,000 years - a time-frame that, even the most hard-nosed cynic would concede, seems to suggest more than a modicum of sustainability. UNESCO’s desire to preserve the integrity of these terraces by making it a World Heritage site in 1995 is a noble one. The effect on the living population from the resulting influx of tourists is another question entirely.
After we were dropped off at the side of the road in the drizzle, a tout proceeded to help us with our luggage down some steep steps leading off from the main road to where we apparently needed to be. With Jennifer and the kids taking refuge in a local restaurant he then helped me find a room from the collection of mostly wooden restaurant/hotels looking out over a southern portion of the rice terraces. Actually he helped until I suggested to him his presence was inflating
the price beyond his worth, and I went off in search of something myself. As a result, I only have myself to blame for where we ended up. The room was fair, ample space, enough beds for everyone and a lovely view. The owners, and their policies, were something we were to find less appealing.
After we’d checked in, I asked the owner about buses out to the terraces and was told there weren’t any… but that we could take a taxi, arranged by them. Strange, I said, since I’d been under the impression there were two-per-day, one in the morning and the other in the afternoon? Jennifer went off to the Information Centre to confirm this, and returned with the news that yes, there were indeed two buses. Though whilst there she was also pressed to buy a taxi/tour with horror stories about what dangers we might encounter on a local bus. I relayed this bus schedule news to the hotel owners, now certain that they had withheld this information from us to make a little commission. But fair enough, I gave them the benefit of the doubt; after all, I’ve stayed in five-star hotels in which the
receptionist has no idea which buses stop outside the hotel.
Not twenty minutes later a female guest rolled up to ask the very same question to the very same lady. She was told there were no buses, but that a taxi could be arranged… I couldn’t help myself, “actually there are two buses a day…” I offered, and proceeded to give the guest specific details, as the owner looked on, mute.
After that the games started, including persistent overcharging for meals at the restaurant, and my favorite arbitrary hotel charge of all time: a charge for charging a laptop in the corridor outside our room (the rooms had had the outlets removed, because they are considered a fire risk). The deteriorating atmosphere at our hotel led us to explore other options for food, even though most of the time there it rained, and it would have made it convenient to stay put.
Though honestly, it didn’t matter which restaurant we visited, the food was uniformly awful. I don’t usually have much of a memory for meals, even very good ones (probably because I don’t take pictures). I am more likely to remember the people, the conversation and
the ambience. Yet, I doubt I will ever forget some of the dishes we were served in that town. Reheated stew in which the potatoes and meat sat old, cold and emaciated in a bland tepid broth. A ham and cheese sandwich which consisted of two pieces of stale bread, a square of processed cheese and a single square of processed ham…no butter, nothing more, nothing less. It probably took less time for them to make that sandwich than it just took for me to write that sentence, and way less love... I could go on but this is making me hungry.
Now in fairness, it could be that those restaurants were having a bad night…a bad few nights even…concurrently. A coincidence, if you will. It could be that I am such a food snob that nothing could ever make me happy culinarily. Truth is, I will, and have, eaten everything and anything during my years of travels.
However, the icing on the proverbially badly baked cake was one night when we just couldn’t face the ordeal of ordering at one of the restaurants, so I went to a small convenience store attached to one of the restaurants
to procure some DIY grub for our evening meal. After selecting the items to purchase I was told I couldn’t buy what I had picked out, as the items in this store were “not for sale to tourists”!
There are theories, even graphs, banded about in the realm of tourism studies. Although they aren’t very anthropological or culturally specific, the basic premise is one I believe most tourists who have traveled for any length of time will understand. The more local populations are exposed to tourists the more jaded they become to their presence. Initially the local or host population embraces the foreign visitor. This euphoria doesn’t last and eventually, inevitably, this leads to apathy once the honeymoon is over. Next up is irritation and eventually… antagonism. Why do tourists seek out places less traveled and try to avoid ‘touristy’ places? They want those welcomes, that embrace; they want to be loved.
Banaue wore us down in a period of our journey when we were in need of some R&R. So about four hours into our bus trip back to Manila we decided to simply jump ship at a random town blessed with zero quantifiable tourist attractions. The
rationale being we could check into the best hotel in town and avoid the need to spend undue time in Manila, unburdened with the pressure of being tourists for a few days. And perhaps, just maybe, we'd encounter some of that tender embrace?
Philippines, why have you forsaken me?
The bus dropped us on the main street of San Jose City, just opposite the town's two hotels of choice. If memory serves me, it was just $35 per night for the best hotel in town. The room was spacious, clean and had WiFi (if the technician could finagle the router so the signal would stretch to our room at the end of the corridor). Being rather unsure what we would do that afternoon in this unbeknownst town, we jumped at the opportunity offered to us by the receptionist who said she would give us tickets to a water park owned by the hotel. It was actually pretty far from town; about 20minutes in a tuk-tuk from San Jose City to a barangay (suburb) named Palestina.
We arrived about 30 minutes before closing time and this
being a weekday, we were the only guests. We suggested to our tricycle guy he may as well then just wait, gave our tickets to the collection of men who manned the entrance, and we were in. It was fairly compact place, two pools and a couple of waterslides and over in one corner a small playground and some picnic tables. It was actually perfect for our little family to splash about, the oppressive heat of the day had faded, and as the sun began to dip in the sky we packed up and left before the mosquitoes came out to play.
We grabbed some food on the way home and that night I awoke in the early hours to watch Thanksgiving Football. Over breakfast we Skyped the family in the States and then settled into a restful day in and around the hotel in preparation for our departure to Manila the next day. That is until the kids got restless mid-way through the day and so we decided we’d give the water park another try. We collected some tickets, hailed a tricycle and were on our way.
We handed over our tickets to the now somewhat familiar
staff and noticed that this time there were a couple of other families in the picnic and playground area, but nobody else in the pool. As had happened the previous day the waterslides needed to be switched on. Whilst getting undressed by the side of the pool, as I had done the previous afternoon, I stuffed my money belt into my shoe and covered it over with my clothes. The boss who was standing close to me saw me saw this and suggested I move the bundle over the other side of the pool, further from the exit. I took his advice and placed the bundle on a picnic table a few feet from the poolside. However even though the resort was virtually empty apart from the staff, my gut instinct was to move the bundle down and closer to the pools edge.
Familiar with the surroundings we got straight into water sliding and splashing about in the pool. Kiva and I were mostly in the one pool whilst Mandalay and Jennifer were in the other. Though, whilst splashing about in the pool I recorded some suspicious looks and movements amongst the staff over where my clothes were stacked,
no more than two-feet from the side of the pool. After a little more splashing about I went over to check it out. I lifted the bundle of clothes from the shoes and sure enough the money belt was gone.
I was struck with incredulity … not that the money belt had been removed, but that they would remove it. After all, it was beyond any shadow of a doubt who had done this. The only other guests in this whole place were a family with small kids over the other side in the playground, and they hadn’t even ventured over here. Was I dealing with a bunch of autistic hoodlums? Or perhaps they felt me to be mentally impaired in some way?
I marched over to the guy who had originally advised me to move the bundle. He was sat with some of the other teenage staff near the entrance and I said “You have ten minutes. If it isn’t returned, the sh** is gonna hit the fan!” An idiomatic blurt which made no mention of the money belt. A strategic assessment which gave no scope for anyone to confirm or deny anything
I was saying. They seemed tense; could it be construed as guilty? Too bloody right it could! They’d suddenly lost the ability to speak English, the ability to look me in the eye, or in communicating more generally. Two of them got up and disappeared around the back to where I assumed their staff quarters were situated. Would this result in the reappearance of my money belt or was it being stashed still further? It was a chance I had to take, but I was confident it would quickly show up; after all, there were no other suspects in this crime.
In taking it they couldn’t have known what it contained; pocket change or a month’s wages. Unfortunately for all concerned,it contained all our money in various currency denominations, and all our credit cards. This meant we had zero money and zero means of getting any. This was a problem we wouldn’t be walking away from; particularly since our visas expired 2 days hence, and we were due to depart for Bangkok.
I gave it ten minutes as Jennifer helped the kids get dressed. I stood watching and waiting as text messages were sent and received by the
six suspects. The money belt didn’t turn up. This I assumed meant they were extremely confident of its hiding place or else it had been removed from the property altogether.
When it became apparent they weren't about to throw up their hands and return the money belt I asked the guy in charge if I could use his phone. He was out of credit, he said, as were the others. I stayed with the suspects; Jennifer walked out to the street with the kids and flagged down a passing motorist. With his help she called the cops. When Jennifer returned I relayed this information to the suspects who frantically began making phone calls.
In this part of the world I knew how the police might react, and I had an inkling they knew it too. I had used this very eventuality as the stick in giving them the opportunity to “find” it. I can only surmise they didn’t think I would be bothered, or had the means or wherewithal.
About ten minutes before the police arrived, an adult boss turned up in a company marked van. He listened to my story and talked to the staff. “Is
it possible someone else took it?” he asks, clearly rattled, but trying to find a solution. Not in a million years; just tell them I need the credit cards, they can keep the money, I say.
The cops turn up with semi-automatic weapons. The boss seems tense, as does the staff… The detective is in his late twenties. He listens intently to the story and talks to some of the staff. He says he’ll get the money belt returned."Just need to take them all back to the station for a confession", he says, with a wry smile.
I argue this is a bad tactic…once the guys are taken to the station the money belt will be a million miles from here and may never show up. With all due respect, I want my credit cards back, not justice served. They can keep the cash, I tell him; we need those credit cards back, without them we are stuck. I tell the policeman the staff can keep the cash as a 'reward' if the money belt is found,no questions asked.
He gives them fifteen minutes to search – they go through the motions of searching, but it is
apparent their backs aren’t really in it; it is almost comical, pathetic. Glances are exchanged between me and the detective… the money belt is no longer here…it’s long gone. The cop doesn’t seem perturbed by this; he seems practically invigorated he’ll be able to use his techniques back at the station.
At this stage I had to inform the tricycle driver who had taken us that I wasn’t able to pay him, much to his obvious chagrin. We then rode back to San Jose City in the van with the prisoners, Kiva asking me if these are the guys who stole our stuff. They looked nervous. I was not in a compassionate mood. Upon arrival Jennifer and the kids were transferred to a police car and taken back to the hotel whilst I remained at the police station.
The lads were taken in for questioning as I waited with their boss. Some senior policemen were interested in the story as I drew little sketch diagrams and emphasized the importance of retrieving the credit cards. Some of them became personally involved in the attempt to extract information from the suspects.
Then, as I sat waiting with the boss
in the reception area, our attention was grabbed by the UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) blaring out from a television screen suspended from the corner of the room. Police officers, waiting civilians and those in handcuffs waiting to be questioned.All watched on.
I’ve never really watched it before, choosing to bypass it with the remote if I ever came across it. So perhaps I haven’t been desensitized to it; through my lens it was gratuitous violence 101. It was pornographic... Human cock fighting… I wasn’t even certain if it was supposed to be sport or spectacle. Watching those powerhouses pummeling as much pain into each other as technique and strength would allow, against the backdrop of six suspects doubtless being slapped around somewhere in the bowels of the police station, made the whole thing feel seedy,disgusting…surreal. My own values were being put through the grinder.
Torture
According to the 1984 United Nations Convention Against Torture, is defined as:
“...any act by which severe pain or suffering, whether physical or mental, is intentionally inflicted on a person for such purposes as obtaining from him, or a third person, information or a confession…”
I have always been against the practice of torture since, in my mind, nobody can really know that the person being tortured has the information that needs extracting.
And even then, do the ends justify the means? In this instance, I knew not which of the guys physically removed the money belt, but that one of them had, and there was certainly some collusion between them. I was also sure that if we didn’t have money or the means to get anymore, we were proper screwed.
After about two hours I was informed they hadn’t confessed to knowing anything about the disappearance of the money belt. The lead suspect had even denied knowledge of seeing me put the money belt in my shoe or that any conversation had occurred between us that day. I decided to go outside and take some hot evening air and start smoking after a lengthy hiatus.
Now I was wondering if they couldn’t extract a confession they mustn’t be doing it right. A swift extrajudicial punch in the face would benefit all concerned. Carried out by a non-state entity, like myself, it isn’t technically even torture, its common assault, ABH at most; call it UFC if you like…I’ll buy myself a trophy if I get the money belt back.
A shared cigarette with one of the detectives becomes another tactical
chitchat. They planned to keep them in the cells over night.This they could legally do without actually charging them. That’ll loosen them up, a policeman suggests. I reiterated that a wait and see policy wasn’t an option.
Since their own methods at extracting information hadn’t produced results I went back into the station and convinced the police officer in charge to haul them out the cells and back to the scene of the crime, in order to refresh their memories a little. Three of suspects were loaded into the van in cuffs. Off again we went; more guns and more cops this time, in the dark. The heavily armed police tell this area is communist rebel territory. An NPA leader was killed in a fierce gunfight here just two years previously in the very barangay we are going to. When we arrive the police proudly show me the bullet holes in one of their vehicles, by way of proof.
The suspects are again told to search, this time with an armed escort. The cops search too. The boss opens up a small onsite shop and dishes out Pepsi’s to everyone; those with semi-automatic weapons, and those in cuffs,
alike. I again relay the story to those police who weren’t here the first time around… we piece together what we think could have happened, where the money belt could have disappeared to. We searched every inch of those grounds, over fences, on roofs, down drains … there was even suggestion of having one of the suspects dredge a nearby pond, if only as a bluff. The search pulls up nothing. The money belt was gone. Even though it is obvious to everyone they’ve done it the suspects hold fast.
What now? Options and energy is flagging. One of the policemen, if only in half-jest, even suggests I may have made the whole thing up for insurance purposes. Only problem is, we’re not insured. Besides which, insurance companies don’t generally pay out if you tell them you left your money belt lying about in a public place, I tell him. Its Thanksgiving holiday weekend back in the States, where our bank is located, and we fly out of Manila on Sunday night. Not good timing, not good at all. We hadn’t even the money to pay the hotel for the night’s accommodation let alone any subsequent transport or accommodation
costs in Manila.
Back at the station the owner of the hotel/resort is waiting in the reception area. He doesn’t have time to address me, the insignificant party. He isn’t happy his boys were down at the station at this late hour, there is no evidence they did this, so let them go. He clearly had clout and wanted them out. He immediately began exerting pressure on the police to release his employees, which started with him insisting he had his boys taken to the hospital to check for signs of police brutality if they weren’t immediately released. The police called his bluff.
As they disappeared down the road to the hospital, the policeman confided in me with a nod and a wink: “They won’t find any evidence, we’re professionals.” True enough the hospital found no evidence of brutality. Though their boss kept the pressure up, suggesting a re-visit, he was clearly as desperate as I was. He wanted them out; I wanted to get out of town.
As the situation stood, the police could keep them in the cells to gather evidence. I can press formal charges and they’ll be charged. A court date will be
set and when I don’t attend, the case will be thrown out. In the meantime, tomorrow was Saturday, a big day at the resort which currently had no staff - the reason for the owner’s anxiety.
Now was the time to use my power play. The police affectively handed me the power to decide if the suspects were released from custody - and told the owner of this fact - knowing full well the leverage it gave me. They even implied how I might like to use that power. But no nudging was necessary. The owner now showed a sudden interest in my plight, and started making hollow assurances to me backed up with rounds of insincere hand grasping.
He’d talk to his boys, he said, he was certain the money belt would materialize; perhaps it would be better for everyone concerned if I let the boys out, he would have a word in their ear and see what he could do. He suggested they were probably too scared to talk to the police but that he could produce better results.
I told the boss that whether they stayed in the cells or were immediately released wasn’t
my concern. It was my family back at his hotel that I was worried about. If he could see to it that we were looked after and found our way back to Manila I would see to it that his boys were released.
At this stage I wasn’t sure whether they had confessed their crime to their boss or not; the police seemed to think he had a good chance of getting them to talk. Though - gone midnight - I couldn’t have really cared less who knew what. If they had confessed, he wasn’t letting on.
What was not in doubt is that regardless of how much money they made, split how many ways, by this stage they’d have wished they’d never bothered. Even if they had made some money, their boss was aware of just how much money was involved and I don’t doubt they would now be indebted to their boss to the tune of that amount.
I told the police I agreed to release the boys, as it was time for me to go home to my wife and kids. I could leave them in the cells overnight and gain nothing, or let
them out and hope my gesture was rewarded. No assurances were made by anyone, though I wasn’t too concerned; after all, I was staying at the owner's hotel and hadn’t paid the bill. Neither of us would be running away from this... and there was always tomorrow.
Suffice it to say, I had built quite a relationship with the police officers by this stage. So when I told them it was time to go home they became adamant that we should hit the town. The late-twenties detective was to drive the unmarked car, and two other plain clothes officers piled in as well. They wanted to show me where the girls were, they said, and share a Red Horse (an extra-strong lager) or two--they were buying. But as the sleazy investigative reporters in the British tabloids colloquially say; I made my excuses and left. I felt a little guilty letting them down, as I’d likely never see them again. But it also seemed a perverse end to the day, all things considered.
Back at the hotel the kids slept whilst Jennifer worked away in front of the computer screen in the dark, cancelling the credit cards and arranging
for new ones. At this stage exactly where we’d be to receive them was uncertain; at this stage, we weren’t even sure which country it would be?
Departure
Next morning we had our breakfast, went back up into the room and pottered about watching TV, surfing the internet and generally waiting. Then came the phone call. It was the boss from the day before. Would I like to come down to reception? I was shown into a room where the boss introduced me to the owner's wife. Her major concern was that they were not to be held accountable for anything that had happened up at the resort. I agreed, an unfortunate incident it was, but I did not find the owners culpable. Apologies were made, I was told we wouldn't have to pay the nights' accommodation owed or the room service charged for the previous 24 hours, and then a brown envelope was given. I modestly thanked them both.
Financially, we’d not lost out; it covered the cash we'd lost and since we hadn't had to pay the hotel bill, we'd made a small profit, though of course you can't put a price on the stress and time involved or the hassle of obtaining new credit cards. With cash, we could leave, and so we gathered up our stuff and headed to the exit.
I left some money at reception on the off chance the unpaid tricycle guy from the previous day would come round asking about us. Lo and behold if it wasn't the very same tricycle guy outside who had taken us out to the resort the previous day. I went back inside to retrieve his fare, so I could pay him personally, and then he took us to the bus station. We told him what had occurred the night before, and he apologized for being upset when we couldn’t pay him. At the bus station he refused to take payment for the fare, yet I insisted plus a little interest. He chased us up onto the bus to give me the money back but I refused to take it back.
It would be nice to end this story there… on a poignant, happier note …but unfortunately we still had to get ourselves to Manila and out of the country.
After a night and day in Manila we got to the airport the following night with zero cash, bar the departure tax. However, when we reached the check in guy at Cebu Pacific he said he couldn't let us on the plane because the infant (our daughter) wasn’t on their computer system. I then showed him a printed copy of the ticket which clearly showed her name. But it isn’t in the system he said. If you have internet I can show you the email confirmation I received from Cebu Pacific, I said. They didn't have internet he claimed, and besides, it didn't matter what the email said, or what was written on our ticket. The system took precedent. After to'ing and fro'ing he said we could add her if we paid. I told him I had no money and no credit cards. He didn't believe me. I told him the story of the previous 24 hours. He said I’d made the whole thing up. I asked him to call San Jose City Police Station. He said he didn't have time. Our little conversation had held up the line for over 40mins.
So, how much is it anyway, I said? $5US, he said. FIVE FREAKIN US Dollars! You kidding me?? You've held up all these people for $5US. Incredible! "Why don’t you ask the people in the queue if they can loan you the money?" he said. I honestly thought I was on Candid Camera at this point. "This isn't The Amazing Race, mate", I informed him. I was livid. I told him since we weren't about to leave our one-year old daughter in the Philippines, I was going to take my family and sit over there, and since this is the last day of our visa, come midnight - in three hours - we will officially be illegal and immigration will want to know why, and I am going to tell them why.
We had reached an impasse. The standoff had come to a head. He then made his overworked, underpaid staff put their hands in their pockets and collect enough small change between them to pay the local equivalent of $5US to allow my infant daughter onto the system and onto the plane. Incredible.
Queuing at immigration I watched the Cebu Pacific staff stalk the line and pull passengers out in order to weigh their hand luggage and have them pay a surcharge. I still have nightmares imagining how this story might have ended if they’d pulled me out of line that night.
As you might imagine we were happy to leave the Philippines that night and draw a line under this whole sordid affair. Yet, like a moths to a flame, we’ll be back to the Philippines sooner rather than later. There’s just too much that we love about the place…Besides which, I’m only happy when it’s complicated!
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Josevich
Josevich
so sorry to hear that!
id be traumatized. thats my worst fear when travelling. to not have any money when im far from home