I tried to buy a ticket on a ferry yesterday, but they only sell them on the day of departure. I assume they do this to prevent scalping, but I can’t be sure of that. I was worried about the timing of all this – my tricycle to Mambajao, jeepney to Benoni, ferry to Balingoan, bus to Cagayan de Oro, taxi to the airport, and then planes. It’s a complex trip, and I didn’t want to get a too-late ferry. I also didn’t want to leave extremely early and miss out on a relaxed last morning at Jasmin. I decided to aim for the 11 a.m. ferry and go from there. I didn’t end up having quite as much time in the morning as I’d have liked, but I still had a good night’s sleep, a cup of coffee in my room, a nice breakfast by the ocean and then enough time for packing and a last-minute shower.

I’m surprised that Jasmin by the Sea doesn’t offer some kind of port service. I’m surprised, actually, at the many things it doesn’t offer. If I were working there, I’d certainly have tons of information on offer so that tourists like me can visit everything on the island. I’d have my own trusted guides and drivers and that sort of thing that I could call on. I’d also have a port transportation service. As it is, there is nothing. It’s surprisingly disorganized. When I went to settle the last of my bill (having paid the bulk of it the day before) I could have gotten away with a lot. The bill I was handed was for 860 pesos and did not include all my meals from the previous day plus the motorbike rental. In terms of the law of the jungle, I should have left it and just paid the 860 pesos. However, I pointed out the error and the adjusted bill was for 2,035 pesos. I wonder if they appreciate the honesty or just think that I am a fool. They must think much of what we do is foolish. I left, for example, a perfectly good umbrella and small kettle in the room. It wasn’t worth it to me to lug it all back to Taiwan where I have no use for it.

It was something of an anti-climatic departure. I had gotten to know Melinda, Mimi, and Janet quite well, but neither Mimi nor Janet worked on Sunday. There was a woman there whom I had never met before. And Melinda was there for just a minute or two. I was left to simply pay my bill, shoulder my backpack and then walk out to the road to flag down a passing tricycle.

It took only a few minutes for a partially empty one to come by. It stopped, I put my backpack on the roof, and then climbed inside. The trip to Mambajao cost only 8 pesos. Getting from Mambajao to the port at Benoni was a bit more involved. I asked lots of people about onward transportation, and in the usual way, they sort of gestured here or there. Again, they weren’t capable of seeing things from my point of view. One got to Benoni by jeepney, and the Benoni jeepneys stopped over there. That’s how it has always been and always will be. However, there is no sign at that spot saying “Jeepney to Benoni.” It is simply a bit of pavement like every bit of pavement in Mambajao. That I didn’t know what their casual gestures meant wasn’t apparent to them. They simply weren’t capable of telling me in words what I needed to know. Luckily, a Benoni-bound jeepney showed up in a few minutes. I had asked every single jeepney if it was going to Benoni. None were. And then a driver pointed behind him to another jeepney just arriving and said it was the one I wanted.

The jeepney was totally empty, but I didn’t have to wait long for it to fill up. For relatively poor people, the Filipinos do a lot of moving around. They seem able to fill as many vehicles as they can put on the street. I was pleased to be bombing along so soon, and I figured I stood a good chance of making the 11 o’clock ferry. It wasn’t that easy, of course.

When we got to Benoni, I got out and walked into the busy port area. I knew there was a ticket office in there, but it wasn’t obvious. I had to ask at a tourist information desk (astonishing and wonderful that such a thing existed) and they pointed it out to me. My heart sank at the ticket office, however, when they told me that there were no more tickets. The ferry was sold out. I saw a chain of events starting in which I would miss my flight to Taipei, and I pleaded with them to help me out. I told them that I had gone to the main office of the Super Shuttle Ferry to buy a ticket yesterday, but they wouldn’t sell me one. I had made a good faith effort to buy a ticket in advance. I couldn’t, and now there were no tickets. Was that fair? It wasn’t fair, and the woman quickly tore off a ticket and handed it to me. “A secret,” she warned. There was a manifest, and all official tickets had to be in the manifest with a name. This ticket was off the manifest, and she was doing me a big favor by giving it to me.

I walked onto the ferry without even knowing that it was my ferry. Again, there were no signs of any kind indicating which boat was which and which dock was which. As a visitor, I just had to guess. I didn’t assume that I had chosen right when the first person told me that this was the Super Shuttle Ferry to Balingoan. I asked as many people as I could until I was reasonably sure that I was on the right boat. I made my way up the narrow stairs above the bottom where the vehicles were loaded, and found that the upper deck was simply jammed with people. It was a sea of faces on the sea. I was astonished, and the lack of tickets suddenly made a lot more sense. I was told that the ferry was now way over capacity. The lack of any sort of organization or security meant that anyone could just walk onto the boat, and people had become accustomed to simply getting aboard and buying their ticket then. You didn’t have to present a ticket in order to board.

I don’t think a ferry being over-capacity in terms of weight or passenger numbers is a unique thing in the Philippines. However, this was clearly beyond even their very elastic limits, and I soon came to appreciate having my off-the-manifest illegal ticket. The coast guard was not allowing the ferry to leave, and now the crew was making an announcement that all those without a ticket would have to leave. A wave of protest broke out, but to no avail. We were all asked to produce our tickets and hold them above our heads. Those not waving that magic pink slip were asked to leave. I’m sure dozens managed to duck down and other wise squirrel themselves away, but a large number of people had to leave.

At this point, a man noticed me standing by the stairwell, and he invited me to take a seat inside the cockpit. I was delighted to do that, and, pink paper in hand, I went into the cockpit and took a seat on a cushion at the back along with some other privileged people. From there, I got to watch all the mysterious things that happen for a ferry to set off across the sea. I was amused to learn that the big wooden wheel, which no one was using, was broken. The pilot was using a tiny wheel to the left. It apparently did exactly the same thing, and I wondered how a wooden wheel can be broken.

The woman who had sold me my off-the-books ticket came in and sat beside me. Her name was Lynn, and we chatted happily for most of the trip. She pointed out the captain – a burly man with a rough face, bulbous nose and few teeth – and the chief engineer – a rake-thin man, who spent most of the journey playing with his young daughter. This little girl was the darling of the crew and she was allowed to do almost anything she wanted. They even gave her the public-address microphone and they fed her lines to say, much to the amusement of everyone. There was a first-mate and a second-mate, and after that came a series of apprentice mates, among which group Lynn counted herself. I assumed she worked solely as a ticket-seller, but she was in fact an apprentice sailor. She knew how to “drive” the boat as well as the first-mate. The terms of her apprenticeship were far from ideal. Her contract stated that she would work four hours a day. In fact, her day began at 4:00 a.m. and ended at 7:00 p.m. More, she worked seven days a week. She literally worked every single day of the year except for Christmas and New Year’s Day. For this, she was given room and board in a rough and simple company boarding house (she often slept on the boats) and 500 pesos a month. To put that in perspective, I paid 700 pesos a night for my cottage. 400 pesos is less than ten dollars Canadian. That isn’t her salary, of course. She was doing an apprenticeship. I’m not sure what her salary would be if she got certified and became an actual “mate.” It probably wouldn’t be much. I’ve heard a number of times that the minimum and standard wage here in the Philippines is 220 pesos per day. That’s roughly $5. They would work six days a week for a total of $125/month. I’ve heard though, that people generally work for much less than this. This is the government-mandated minimum wage, but employers ignore it. This figure will be on the contract, but in order to get the job, whatever it is, the employee will have to agree to be paid less. The population of the Philippines is very young, and there is a lot of competition for jobs.

I fielded the usual questions from Lynn: my age, my citizenship, my religion, my occupation, my marital status. I haven’t been here long enough to start lying – the easy route – so I told the truth and then had to deal with the incredulous reactions. Technically, I did lie about religion by saying that I was Christian. However, they aren’t really asking if you believe in a religion. They are really asking if you are Muslim or Christian. Given those choices, I’m Christian. There is no such thing as no religion in a country like the Philippines.

I fielded lots of other questions from the other apprentice mates, and I asked lots of questions in my turn, so it was a very enjoyable trip sitting up there in the cockpit. I don’t say that I could drive the boat myself, but I have a pretty good idea of how to make the thing go, stop, turn, and reverse.

 

I stayed up in the cockpit through the docking procedure and then while most of the passengers and vehicles got off. I was given to understand that there were lots of buses to Cagayan de Oro and I didn’t need to beat anyone to the bus station. By this point, I had realized that this was a holiday weekend in the Philippines. I think I mentioned earlier that April 9, Saturday, was the anniversary of the surrender in Bataan and the beginning of the Bataan Death March. A man told me they called it the Day of Valor. Falling on a Saturday as it did, I didn’t think it would affect my travel plans. I had miscalculated though, not taking into account that Filipinos generally work on Saturday. So having Saturday off gave them a rare weekend of leisure, and that is why the ferry (and now the airport) was so crowded. The time I went to Palawan with my bicycle was also a national holiday here, and that made things much more tense in the airports. I have a habit of doing that, it seems. Luckily I did not make my travel plans for this coming week – Holy Week. It appears that this coming week will be so busy as to make any kind of travel a horror of crowds. I was told that even today, all the cottages and hotels on Camiguin are fully booked. There is nothing available.

As it turned out, I never even made it to the bus station. I popped into the port building to use their facilities, and then when I came out, a man beside a white van asked me if I was going to Cagayan de Oro. The van was filling up with people at 100 pesos a head. “When are you going?” I asked.

“Now!!!” he cried in a near-astonished tone of voice.

I was so taken with the way that he said now that I repeated it back to him with a big question mark at the end. Then I accepted the front seat and off we went in short order. I was very glad to be in that van instead of in a bus. The fellow sitting beside me spoke good English. He wasn’t as chatty as Lynn, but he replied to my questions politely, and the time passed easily. What a difference from my trip out 10 days ago. It had been a dream up until that point.

Things got a bit more difficult and tense as we approached Cagayan de Oro. The roads filled with traffic, the beautiful coastline disappeared. Still I can’t complain. The van’s destination was a taxi and bus terminal of some kind. From there, it was a simple matter to get a taxi to the airport. A companion told me that the real price was 250 pesos and I was happy to pay 300. I would have been happier if my driver was not bent on our destruction, but luck was with me and I survived the trip. Entering the airport, I was amused at a large sign that read, “Private security personnel with high-powered and long-range firearms not allowed beyond this point.” Signs to waterfalls and giant clams are not considered important, but this was. It tells you what the priorities are here in the Philippines.

My quality of life sank considerably once I entered the airport. That’s no surprise. Still, I can’t really complain. Unlike other airports in the Philippines, this one is beautifully air-conditioned, has actual flush toilets, and managed to muster up a cup of hot instant coffee for me. That it is so crowded is just the fluke of it being a holiday weekend. The crowds certainly increased the tension level. The departure lounge is very small, and has nowhere near enough seating or room to accommodate the many flights departing within just minutes of each other.

8:45 p.m

Seattle’s Best Coffee

Aquinoy International Airport, Manila, Philippines

I have jumped ahead by a couple of hours and a few hundred kilometers. Many of the stages of my journey have been completed, with just two or perhaps three to go. My mood dipped considerably while I waited in the airport in Cagayan de Oro. The crowds, the noise, the confusion, the official processes, and the impersonality of it all was a poor substitute for the paradise I had left that morning. Going back into the real world, I suppose.

The airline, Cebu Pacific Air, certainly didn’t help. Their announcements weren’t very clear and they numbered all their flights within one digit of each other. Therefore, I often thought they were talking about my flight when they weren’t. And I kept suspecting that they had simply misread it and were talking about my flight. To make matters worse, flights were running late and they kept changing the departure times. Meanwhile, people kept pouring into the small departure area until I had butts in my face as I sat. There was a solid wall of people in front of me as every seat was taken as well as every foot of aisle space. It was not very comfortable. I just kept my head down and minded my own business. I tried once, on impulse, to speak to the woman beside me. I was going to try to clear up the confusion about the flights. She, however, must have been Muslim, because she stonewalled me. It was perfect. She did not react in even the tiniest way. When I first spoke and got no response – not even a blink of an eyelash – I thought she hadn’t heard. So I spoke again, louder. Still nothing. She was as granite. I had to admire her. I had never seen anyone ignore with that naturalness. I began to doubt that I had spoken or that I even existed. I found it bothersome, and that surprised me. After all, it is simply their culture and there is no insult intended. I did, though, find it a bit much that a culture or religion would require you to simply ignore all men other than your husband and family.

Boarding finally began, and I was welcomed into the modern arms of a brand new jet. Clad as I was in shorts, a salt-stained T-shirt, and sandals, I suddenly felt very underdressed. From a man perfectly dressed for the beach and adventure, I was now a bum on a jet. I was smart enough to pack a nicer pair of shorts and a nice collared shirt in my carry-on bag, and I plan on changing into them as soon as I finish my coffee and head toward the boarding gate.

I passed the time on the flight by reading a book on my Kindle, and before I knew it, we were descending into Manila. I had been talking so much in my time on Camiguin, that I was almost talked out. I didn’t bother my seatmates at all, and I spoke hardly a word on that flight and now in the airport. Perhaps it is just the atmosphere. The more people there are around, the less it seems there are to talk to. While on Camiguin and then on the ferry and the van, everyone was fair game. I felt comfortable starting a conversation with everyone. Now that I am surrounded by hundreds and even thousands of people, I find that there is no one to talk to. I feel suspicion in the air, not friendliness.

After all this time, you’d think I’d be very comfortable in an international airport. And I am, but not entirely. They are unsettling places. Even here in Manila, the population at the airport is quite varied. There are people from all over the world dressed in dozens of different styles and all of them going about strange business and going to strange places. It is intimidating and a little frightening. You also feel among strangers. On Camiguin, I felt among friends. Here, I feel on my own. If I got in trouble in one way or another, I would be on my own. I could not turn to anyone for help in any real way.

Going through the airport was almost second-nature, but I still went about it slowly and I asked questions the whole way. I was told when I flew from Taiwan to the Philippines, that my luggage would be transferred all the way through to Cagayan de Oro. As you might remember, it wasn’t. If I had just gone ahead, I would have had a holiday without my luggage. Coming back, I was again told that my luggage would go all the way through to Taiwan. I trusted them more this time but not enough to simply walk away. I went down to the luggage carousel along with everyone else and I waited until absolutely no more bags were emerging. Even then, I went up to the Cebu Pacific Info counter and confirmed that my bag had gone through to Taipei. I did not want to exit the area and then have my bug suddenly pop out onto the carousel. It’s a bit of a problem. The whole advantage of having your bags checked through to your final destination is that you don’t have to bother with it or think about it anymore. In this case, I had to wait far longer than anyone else just to make sure that my bag had gone through. I ended up paying a penalty for the privilege, all because the system was unclear.

On the very positive side, Cebu Pacific’s domestic and international operations are in the same terminal. Transferring from one to the other is as simple as going up two floors by escalator. Of course, when I arrived I was still inside the Philippines. Making the transfer meant entering the international terminal, which meant another round of security checks, another terminal fee, and another go-round with immigration. This is a brand new terminal and has nothing in common with the old building in Cagayan de Oro. Everything here is shiny and modern and there is lots of room and many fancy coffee shops and restaurants, all of them only too eager to charge you outrageous airport prices.

Immigration was not that difficult. The only catch there was having to pay the terminal fee of 750 pesos first. Those airport terminal fees are quite the modern rip-off. I suppose like all user-fees it can be defended. But when one pays a high price for an airline ticket, it seems wrong to then have to pay a fee to use the airport terminal. Many people are caught by that high fee. They regulate their spending so all their pesos are spent by the time they get to the neighborhood. Then they suddenly have to find 750 pesos somewhere. They will only accept pesos, so now people are faced with having to change $100 in order to get the nearly $20 worth of pesos. I knew about this, so I had pretty much set aside 750 pesos right from the beginning.

The lineup for immigration was long, and I had lots of time to look at all the other passengers. The two most interesting were a couple right in front of me. The man looked to be an American in his thirties. He could have stepped out of some kind of a glamor magazine except for a bit of a flabby neck. He was dressed in flashy and expensive clothing. His wife had the same look. Everything, from the huge diamond ring on her finger to the shawl draped elegantly over her shoulder screamed money. No scrum to get on a ferry for her. I think standing in a lineup with the masses at the airport is enough of a shock for her. Her eyes darted to everyone all the time to make sure they weren’t eyeing the zipper on her perfect carry-on bags. The top bag had a kind of flap with a snap on it, and she made a point of flipping over the flap each time she caught someone looking her way. When she got close to the front of the line, she unsnapped the flap and unzipped the bag, and I saw the contents. It was a pickpocket’s paradise. She had everything of value just sitting there on top. No wonder she was so suspicious. At one point, I saw a man ahead of them in line suddenly dart away. He had left his pen at the counter where you filled out your departure card. He got his pen and then tried to get back in line, and the man stopped him with a hand and a loud, “Excuse me?” The man indicated the pen and the counter, but the glamour man hadn’t noticed him leave the line and wasn’t interested anyway. Just back off, was his whole attitude. They were probably the nicest people imaginable, but all that expensive jewelry, clothing, and luggage made me catty.

I’m glad to say that my airport systems had clicked into place to a much better extent than on my trip out. I had everything where it was supposed to be. It was all secure and safe and I never got close to losing track of it. I was even wearing my money belt with my money and ID in it. I had my passport and ticket in my neck pouch under my shirt. All was safe and secure.

 

Time for a quick wrap-up: When I was writing last, I was in the airport in Manila and having a cup of coffee and a couple of ham croissants. After I finished the coffee, I changed into cleaner and neater clothes for my arrival in Taipei and then went to the departure lounge. I was given a seat in the emergency row with lots of legroom. A group of foreigners sat with me. They were engineering students from Holland and Denmark. They had gone to the Philippines for spring break. I chatted with them for most of the flight to Taipei and we compared notes on Taiwan and the Philippines.

The flight was over before I knew it, and I was walking through the Taipei airport and smiling at all the weird English on all the signs. Felt like coming home. I didn’t rush through the formalities, but I’m glad I didn’t dawdle either. I stepped outside of the airport within a minute of the last airport bus of the night leaving. Not sure how I would have gotten home if I’d missed it.

The engineering students were also on the bus and we chatted a bit. It was so strange to be back in Taipei. The roads felt more like tunnels than roads. It always feels that way. The roads are narrow and the buildings rise up on both sides so you feel hemmed in. It’s so different from the wide-open spaces of the Philippines. The bus just happened to go right down the main road near my apartment. The driver kindly stopped right there and I was home in a couple of minutes.

As always, my rooftop apartment felt tiny. It always feels tiny after a trip. My hotel rooms and bungalows are all generally larger than my entire apartment in Taipei. My whole apartment was a mess, and I couldn’t even be bothered to unpack. I simply dropped my backpack in the living room, stripped off my clothes, and fell into bed. It was 2 in the morning. Five hours later, my alarm went off and I went back to work.

Tags: Aquinoy International Airport, Cagayan de Oro, Camiguin Trip, Taipei