Monday, March 17

I thought I might be on the road by this time, but I’m still in Port Barton. I’m going to spend at least another day here before moving on. There seemed no compelling reason to move, and it’s a pleasant, quiet place. I wanted to have a day for just reading and doing nothing.

That’s not to say that the days till now have been whirlwinds of activity. I’ve never been much of a whirlwind guy. I still seem to be running on a sleep deficit, and I love to go to bed early and then sleep long and hard helped along by the sounds of the waves.

The first meal I had was at the Bamboo House. On my second evening I went to another place called Judy’s. Yvonne and I had sat by Ysobel’s while the sun went down, then agreed to meet later for dinner. I think she was ready to go right then, wet clothes and all. However, I wanted to have a shower and get cleaned up. She went off down the beach in the dark, and I went upstairs to shower.

Port Barton is a fairly small place. The entire beach is dominated by a row of cottages for tourists. Running directly behind them is a road, and beyond that are one or two more roads making a simple grid of dirt roads. There is a gas station, a few stores, a school, and a few restaurants. Judy’s Good Food is an unusual place. It has almost a fast-food restaurant design. At one end, there is a counter with a big menu mounted on the wall. A waitress stands there and takes your order. Then you sit at a table and wait for your food.

The tables and chairs were quite simple – mostly plastic and other cheap materials. Each table had a can of sand on it with a lit candle stuck in the sand. I ordered a chicken curry and Yvonne, who is vegetarian and quite food-adventurous, chose something almost at random. She had no idea what it was except that it had no meat.

I found my energy had run out by this point, and I had little to say. The curry was good, though, and it came with far more chicken than any chicken curry had a right to contain. Someone told me earlier that one of the owners of the place was a Texan, and you could sort of feel a foreign influence in the design of the place. There was another restaurant across the road, but I chose Judy’s because it was fairly busy and almost every table was taken. I was happy to see that two kittens were romping around. They were tiny little things. When I picked them up they felt like strings of bone and fur. They were quite brave and purred loudly on my chest.

In Sabang, one spends a day going to the Underground River. In Port Barton, the day-trip (not involving a boat) is to a waterfall. Waterfalls don’t mean very much to me as a rule, but they serve as a destination for a walk. I arranged with Yvonne to walk there at ten the next morning.

I made sure to bring enough water this time, and ended up bringing too much. Better too much than too little, but then you do have to carry it. The trail to the waterfalls was similar to the trail to the underground river in that it was partly signposted. There was a sign at the very beginning of the trail at the end of the beach. It said that the waterfalls were “approximately” 3.8 kilometers away. After that sign, though, one quickly got to an intersection of three or four roads and trails. This was the one place where the trail really needed a sign to point the way, but there was no sign. We chose the direction that made the most sense. At least it made the most sense to me. It was not a trail, but an actual rough road that had been carved out with bulldozers. It seemed to be going in the right direction, though.

I was still having trouble with my feet, and I attempted the road in my bare feet. I couldn’t wear my Teva sandals because my blisters weren’t really getting any better. They were still infected and weeping, and I didn’t want the sandals to rub against them. I also didn’t want to wear my flip-flops as the space between my toes was really hurting. I couldn’t walk very well in them, and I didn’t want to develop sores there, too. The road was rough and stony, but by being careful, I managed to move along it.

We walked for what felt like a long time without seeing any indication that we were on the way to waterfalls. The first big sign said proudly that the way to the waterfalls was clearly marked. So when we didn’t see any signs at all, we started to wonder if this was the right way. There wasn’t much to do but to continue on, so we continued walking. Yvonne seemed to feel it was the wrong way, but I had the sense that it was the right way.

The first indication that we were on the right road came with a sign at a gate that said they sold DVDs with video or pictures of the local scenery. It seemed quite odd that such a thing was being sold way out there in the bush. I don’t think anyone would even think to put up a sign if tourists didn’t occasionally go past on their way to the waterfalls. Shortly after that, we got our first official sign – well, half a sign. There was half a sign nailed to a tree that said something like “way to waterfalls.” The half with the arrow on it had been chopped off or just rotted off. I looked on the ground for a couple of seconds and actually found the part of the sign with the arrow. I could line it up with the bit of sign on the tree like a jigsaw puzzle, and it pointed in the direction that we were going.

A few hundred meters after that, there was another sign pointing down a trail. This one said that it was 100 meters to the waterfall. That didn’t make any sense to me because I didn’t see anything 100 meters in that direction that could be a hill or a cliff or anything that might produce a waterfall. It also seemed to be going in the wrong direction. My sense was that the ocean and the beach were to the left. Yet, the waterfalls had to be inland towards the mountain ridges.

Yvonne again didn’t seem to agree with my finely honed sense of direction and overall “woodsmanship”, but it didn’t matter since this was the trail no matter which way it was going. We started down it and very quickly felt like we had entered the jungle. The trail was clear and dry for a while, but then it turned into a small stream. I tried for a while to walk on my flip flops, but that clearly didn’t make any sense as the mud just sucked them off my feet with every step. I took my flip-flops off and then walked in the mud in my bare feet. Yvonne did the same, though after a few steps she had the very intelligent suggestion that since we were getting our feet wet anyway, why don’t we just walk in the clear water in the middle of the stream? I laughed when she said that, because it was suddenly so clear. It made no sense that we were slogging through gooey mud on the edges, when we could just walk on sand in the middle in the clear water.

We also had to ford a couple of streams and pools on tree trunks and tree branches that someone had put there with a small railing. The trail then met up with a much larger and much rockier stream. This was clearly the main runoff from the waterfall. I didn’t say this to Yvonne, because she would probably have doubted my manly woodsman instincts anyway. The trail vanished a little bit here and there, and we were forced to find our way across the stream and then try to pick up the trail on the other side. We had easily gone a kilometer on this trail, so the 100 meters on the sign by the road was wildly optimistic.

In the end, I enjoyed the walk quite a bit, and the waterfall, though just a waterfall, was quite nice especially as we had it all to ourselves, and with all the trouble getting there it felt like we had discovered it in a way. The falls were about thirty meters high and from a distance the water flow didn’t look that strong. There was a nice pool of cold water at the base, and I took off my shirt and flip-flops and waded in. I wasn’t tempted to dive at all. There were just too many rocks around and I could hardly get my footing for a dive anyway. I did a breast stroke out to the base of the falls and then tried to climb up on the rocks a little bit. That’s when I realized that there was a bit more water coming over them than I had thought at first. Falling from that height, the water hit hard and when I stuck my body under the flow I was blasted off the rocks and back into the pool. There was enough water falling that it created a fast current and I had to swim fairly hard just to stay in one place and then regain the rocks.

Yvonne, meanwhile, was strolling around and exploring the rocks and trees around the pool. I took her picture with her digital camera and then I took some pictures of the falls with my camera. I was snapping quite a few, enough in fact to prompt Yvonne to ask me what I was going to do with the pictures. She had taken one of the falls and then one of her in front of the falls and that’s it. I had probably taken about fifteen from different angles. I’m not sure why I took so many. I guess I just kept seeing new ways of looking at the falls. The light also kept changing and each change prompted me to take another picture. I’ve just gotten in the habit of taking lots of pictures.

We had the falls to ourselves for a comfortable amount of time, and then a group of about ten young Filipinos and Filipinas showed up. They were clearly locals, and this was their swimming hole on the weekend. We stayed for a few minutes yet, and then decided to pack up and go. It was a pleasant little hike, nothing to get too excited about, but a good way to add some interest to a day in Port Barton. Yvonne seemed to enjoy it. She commented that she probably would have turned back at the muddy toes stage if she hadn’t been with me. I guess she meant that it was a good thing that I was there. Though I suppose she could have meant that having me around forced her into this silly adventure that she wouldn’t have minded missing. It’s hard to say, but I think she was glad that she had some company for the hike. She struck me as an odd combination of the tough and courageous with some timidity. Insects and dogs seemed to freak her out, yet she would eat anything off a menu, and here she was traveling on her own around a fairly tough island. I certainly appreciate the freedom I have as a guy to be able to do whatever I want. I would have walked to the waterfall on my own without a second thought. But were I a woman, I doubt that I would have. I was fine with the ten locals showing up, but a woman alone might find that a bit threatening. In any event, it might be foolhardy to a woman have taken that lonely and long trail by herself no matter what the circumstances. There are the very real risks, but there are also the risks of just being annoyed by drunks and unwanted attention. I find that is something of a fine line. That first day, it seemed quite natural for Yvonne and I to team up and go for a walk and then have dinner together. The waterfall also seemed like a natural thing to do together. I’m here on my own. She’s here on her own. Yet, I was always watching her and listening for little signs and signals that I should back off and give her some space. It’s a funny thing with women. In Yvonne’s case, she told me at least two stories of these horrible men that talked to her and annoyed her. I didn’t really think I was in the same category as these guys. I’m “normal” whatever that means, and I was looking for nothing more than some company, just as I had teamed up with the boys in Sabang.

We got back to Port Barton with lots of time left in the day. It was a nice feeling to have had a small adventure, and then have the rest of the day still there. One could then just do nothing but sit around with no guilt at all. I had expected to do a lot of reading in Port Barton, but with Yvonne as an adventure companion, I hadn’t done very much. We sat out front of her cottages for a while and drank beer. She even got me to play a game or two of cards. It isn’t something that comes naturally to me, but she loved to play card games. She was quite fond of a game called Shithead, and she warned me that she was very good and always won. I experienced a bout of beginner’s luck, though, and won two out of three games.

Yvonne was staying at Summer Homes, and overall it seemed a pretty good place. This was the place with the Internet that I didn’t quite manage to use. They didn’t have bungalows or cottages, but a string of rooms attached together in a motel kind of strip. I never did see inside any of the rooms, but according to Yvonne, hers was quite nice – much better-apportioned than she expected. I did see inside one of the bathrooms, and I was surprised at how nice it was. It had white tile everywhere, nice white porcelain fixtures, towels, and was spotless. It could have been a bathroom in a nice hotel in Canada. If that were any indication, the rooms were probably very nice and at around 500 pesos, a much better deal than my place was. Summer Homes also had a very nice grassy lawn at the front with very comfortable deck chairs and umbrellas. The place just seemed well-designed. Ysobel’s, by contrast, was supposed to be upscale, but was in fact quite uncomfortable. They didn’t provide any services that I could see. It could have benefited a lot from some redesigning and the addition of a few things like deck chairs. At it was, there was nowhere to sit other than the restaurant. And the restaurant was one of these mystery places – huge and ornate, but completely empty of customers and staff. I got the impression that they actively discouraged people from using the restaurant. They wanted your money for the cottages, but after that they just wanted you to leave them alone. Their prices reflected that. They were so high that they practically forced you to go looking somewhere else. Even the American that introduced me to Yvonne was buying his beer at the store and bringing it to Ysobel’s. He could certainly afford the 65 pesos they charged at Ysobel’s, but it seemed just high enough to be a bit of an insult. He preferred to get his beer for 20 pesos at a shop.

The staff there puzzled me immensely, as did the staff at most places. The first day, I noticed that they had a big staff meeting. It looked pretty serious with talking points and minutes and discussions. I assumed this all had to do with how to properly run the place and serve the guests, but there wasn’t much serving of the guests going on. One was quite lucky to ever spot them so that you could ask them for a service – like a cold beer or a cup of coffee. I don’t know what they did with all their time, because they served almost no meals, and in three days, they never once made up my room. I thought at 800 pesos a night, one would at least get a clean towel or a clean sheet after the second night. I could probably have gotten them, but I’d have had to ask.

It was, however, almost ideal for someone like Jim, the American. As he told me many times, he liked to control things. And there was so little control at Ysobel’s, and so few guests and staff that he could take over the joint. He set up shop on one of the benches in the restaurant by grabbing lots of pillows from around him. Then he brought in bags of his own cold cheap beer from the shop. Then he broke out his CDs that he travels with and played them over the restaurant’s sound system. This was heaven for Jim. I sat with him on my last night at Port Barton. I hunkered down on the bench opposite him, accepted one of his store-bought bottles of beer and then two or three more that he got from the restaurant. His music was playing in the background – lots of updated oldies like “Ain’t Misbehaving” – and we sat there and chatted and watched the sunset.

I learned through our chat that he was 68 years old and sort of retired. He was a Vietnam Vet and had served as a flight surgeon. He had a career as an orthopedic surgeon and had also worked in real estate. I got the impression that he was quite successful in all of this and had a lot of money. He started going on these trips about 18 years ago, and I think he’s been practically everywhere in the world. He has a wife and grown-up children, but it seems that he goes off on all these adventures on his own. There didn’t seem to be a country in the world about which he didn’t have a story – including a night of voodoo and sleeping on the ground in some remote village in West Africa. He really got around.

After traveling, or perhaps equal to traveling, in his heart, is dancing. He loves to dance, and he will go well out of his way to find a place where he can dance. If he can’t find one, he just turns wherever he is into a dance club. He felt like dancing while we were watching the sunset, and he just got up and convinced one of the women at Ysobel’s to dance with him right there in the restaurant with no one else around. His advice to me as a “young man” was to learn to dance. Women everywhere wanted to dance, he said, and men who danced were few and far between. He recommended taking some lessons and learning how to really dance, and it would enrich your life wherever you went. He had obviously given this advice to lots of people over the years, including to his own son. His son hadn’t taken this advice to heart, and had instead gone to Harvard business school and made a fortune in equity trading.

I couldn’t keep up with Jim in the enthusiasm department or the drinking department. Besides, I was planning to leave in the morning on my bicycle, and I didn’t want to have a hangover. So I was careful to pace my drinking – I didn’t want to turn down his hospitality, but I didn’t want to be ill either.

I had joined Jim almost by accident that night. I was up in my room intending to sit on my balcony and read my book for a while before sunset and dinner. I went down to look for a cold drink, got to chatting with Jim, and then never went back up. At one point, I went up and took a quick shower and changed into long pants and a t-shirt thinking to be prepared for dinner if it came my way. I was half-expecting Yvonne to show up. She had said something about dropping by to look at a brochure that I had for the Coconut Garden Resort. She was also going to pass on a book that she was finished with, and I thought we might end up going out for dinner. She had plans to leave in the morning and so did I. However, she didn’t show up, and by the time I was ready for dinner, it was quite late and I didn’t look for her. Jim said that she was establishing her independence and then said something about German women being a bit funny that way. I wasn’t that concerned about it. Yvonne could clearly take care of herself and had likely wanted some time on her own to read her book and just watch the sunset.

One night in Port Barton, Yvonne and I had gone to the Sunset Bar to – of course – watch the sunset. Port Barton is known for its sunsets, though I had my doubts about that. The horizon was not clear ocean like at Boracay, but a mixture of peninsula and islands. I had this idea that a truly great sunset had to take place on a flat horizon. At first, I thought I was to be proved right. The sun was low in the sky as we started to walk toward the Sunset Bar. I asked Yvonne if she had her camera. She looked in her bag, and found that she didn’t. She went back to her room to get it, and by the time she came back out, the sun had vanished already! I thought that was a pretty weak sunset. However, we kept walking and got a beer at the Sunset Bar. Then to my surprise, the sunset found a second gear. The whole sky lit up with color. After that, the sunset found a third gear, and a fourth and a fifth. It just went on and on with the sky changing constantly. It was the longest sunset I had ever experienced, and I had to agree that it was quite nice. I gave it at least 8 out of 10.

Yvonne was interested in the brochure from Coconut Garden because I had mentioned it as a nice option instead of spending more time in Port Barton. My boat from Sabang had stopped at Coconut Garden on the way to Port Barton, and I hadn’t given the place much thought. It was on its own island all by itself. I thought it would be a bit boring there as well as quite expensive. However, the Australian family that had the first bungalow at Ysobel’s was going there and they told me all about it. Nice rooms there cost only 500 pesos a night, and they had a boat that took you out there, and they had a nice restaurant. To top it off, the water there was much nicer than the water at Port Barton. I understood that it was clear and bright as opposed to the murky water at Port Barton’s beach. Plus, there weren’t supposed to be any jelly fish or sea lice.

The Australian man said that one of his young sons had been stung by a jellyfish tentacle, and that they were all itching like crazy from the sea lice in the water. I had never heard of sea lice before, but it made sense to me. I was itching everywhere from just about everything. Plus, all of my bites and blisters and rashes were getting infected. I started to think that a trip out to Coconut Garden might be nice. I mentioned this to Yvonne and to my surprise, she seemed to think it was a good idea for her as well. I thought that if she wanted to go, it would work out nicely. 500 pesos a night would be cheaper than my room at Ysobel’s, and I could swim and snorkel at a nicer beach, and have some company. The idea kind of petered out though as the day went by. For me, it felt like going backward on my trip. I think it felt that way to Yvonne as well. She was eager to get moving on the road and start moving toward Taytay and El Nido.

In fact, both of us had made noises about leaving one morning earlier. However, I ended up counting days, and I realized that I had more than enough days available and there was no reason to rush. I felt that I would regret leaving Port Barton too soon and heading onto the hot roads. I just wasn’t in the mood to leave yet, and the next morning, I trooped downstairs with my little computer and sat at a table intending to while away the morning on this journal and drinking coffee. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single person around at Ysobel’s to serve me this coffee. I waited and waited, but no one made an appearance. Eventually, I was forced to get up and look for my coffee elsewhere.

I did get my coffee and breakfast at the Bamboo House, but I never did find my journal mood. I just had nothing to say, and I read my book and chatted with a couple that was on their way to El Nido by jeepney. This couple had been on the boat from Sabang with me. He was a big, blond-haired guy – young and fit and good-looking in something of a cool way. He was traveling with a Filipina who spoke excellent English. They had a comfortable aura about them that told me they were a longstanding couple. At first, I thought a guy like that wouldn’t be that approachable, but he turned out to be quite friendly, and I chatted with him a few times. He had gone to Ysobel’s when I had, but had ended up at Elsa’s and got a nice beach-side cottage for half of what I was paying.

I didn’t see too much of them during my days at Port Barton, but I found out that they spent one day on an island-hopping trip. I was late to this whole boat-trip thing partially because I wasn’t that interested and partially because I didn’t find out how it worked. Through chatting with them at the Bamboo House, I learned that the boat trips from Port Barton were very easy to organize. There was a time when all the local people competed for the tourist trade, and this led to bad feelings and confusion and problems. Then they started a co-op. They had a nice information booth right on the beach, and you could go there and choose a trip you wanted to go on. There were set prices, and you got the next boat and boatman that was on the rotation. I love things that are organized like that. That gave me the idea that perhaps for a small adventure on my last day in Port Barton, I could go on a little boat trip. I didn’t want to go on a full-on island hopping tour. I think those are all-day events and you have to leave early in the morning to make a day of it. However, I knew there was a mangrove swamp nearby, and there was an organized trip there. That promised to be quite casual and perhaps only two or three hours long.

So after breakfast and after this couple had gotten on their jeepney, I went for a stroll down the beach to see if Yvonne had left or not. I was pleased to see that she was sitting outside Summer Homes reading her book. I leaned over the cement railing and I broached the idea of going on a trip to the mangrove swamp. She thought that was a great idea, and in a few minutes, we walked down to the tourist co-op. A young fellow was there, and I asked him about the trip to the mangrove swamp. He was very informative, and it all seemed very easy. The trip cost 400 pesos for one person and 600 for two. They generally left earlier in the morning when the wildlife might be a bit more active, but you could leave at any time you wanted. We arranged to leave in forty minutes or so, at ten o’clock. Then we split up to get ready. I was quite pleased with the way the day was shaping up.

I stopped off at a store on my way back to Ysobel’s to stock up on mosquito repellant and sunblock and water. The tube of Children’s Off that I bought in Cambodia was finally starting to run out, and I needed some more. I still had sunblock, but it was clear that I was going to need some more before the trip was over. This still was the worst-planned trip in history, but I was learning a few things. One thing I was learning was that you couldn’t be casual. I had assumed that one could get the tourist staples like sunblock and t-shirts anywhere on Palawan, but that wasn’t true. Things popped up in the oddest places or not at all, and you had better grab it when you see it because you might not see it again.

In this case, I knew the store had mosquito repellant and sunblock. I had seen it the day before. So I bought a big tube of Off for 128 pesos and an equally big tube of SPF 50 sunblock for 415 pesos. It was very exciting sunblock called Banana Sport and came in a bright yellow and brown tube. It was sweat resistant, water resistant, non-greasy, and just about everything else you could name. I also bought another gallon of water and some more Katialis cream to keep treating my endless heat rash and other “skin tax”. I seem to be picking up a little package of Katialis every time I go into a store. It’s a good thing, because I’m applying it like crazy and it runs out very fast.

I went back to Ysobel’s, got my gear sorted out for the big mangrove trip (including my snorkel and mask just in case), took a refresher shower, and then strolled back to the tourist info booth with plenty of time to spare.

The young fellow was still in the booth, and I joined him up there to chat and look at his map. It was a confusing map in that all the land was blue and the water was white. Apparently, I wasn’t the first tourist to be confused as everyone gets the land and water mixed up because of this color scheme.

I waited there until ten, but Yvonne didn’t show up. I was surprised as she always seemed so prompt and even early before. I eventually went looking for her and found her sitting outside Summer Homes reading her book. She wasn’t traveling with a watch and was surprised to learn that it was already ten o’clock. Of course, this is the Philippines, and it hardly mattered. We had already paid our 600 pesos, and the boatman had already gone off to buy gas and we should be all set to go.

Back at the tourist information booth, the young guy introduced us to our boatman for the day. Like many Filipinos, his age was unclear to me. I couldn’t even guess at it. From his face and physique, he could be 22 or 42. I just didn’t know. I found out later that he was a rice farmer, a fisherman, and a tour guide depending on the time of year. He was married and had two children – a boy and a girl – and the oldest was a year and a half. That put him closer to the 22-range, but he could have been older. Yvonne commented a number of times on how one just didn’t see too many old people around. I reflected that that was true.

Our guide’s boat was a typical little banca with an outrigger on each side. He adjusted a plank at the front to make a seat for Yvonne, and then indicated that I could sit on the platform behind her which put me up a bit higher.

As we got ready, I looked at my North Face daypack and realized once more what an idiot I am. I just can’t seem to get my head around this trip. Here I was going out on a boat ride on the ocean when it was probably going to rain, and instead of bringing one of my four waterproof Ortlieb pannier bags, I had brought my non-waterproof daypack. I hate those Ortlieb bags, but their one advantage is that they are 100% waterproof. So why didn’t I think to bring one on this boat trip? Why? I’m an idiot.

That boat was small, but it was easily big enough for the three of us and it carried us well. We zoomed out over the water with the tiny little propeller digging in quite nicely. Out of the water, the props on these boats look ridiculously small, but apparently you don’t need a big prop. Turn them fast enough, and they can provide a lot of power and speed.

The main thing I noticed on our trip to the mangrove was the vast number of jellyfish in the water. I knew the monsters were out there. I had been surrounded by them and stung by them already. But I couldn’t possibly have imagined how many there actually were. They were everywhere! There were times when they seemed to stretch to the horizon on both sides of the boat. There were hundreds and thousands of them. If they were more solid, one could practically use them as stepping stones and walk across the water. You couldn’t have paid me to get in that water. Still, they were quite beautiful. They had a clear blue color and they propelled themselves through the water with a graceful pulse of their bodies. I wondered how many of them were killed every day by the boats zooming around. Perhaps they swam just deep enough to avoid getting cut in half.

I was very excited to be on the boat and laughed aloud a couple of times. Yvonne looked back at me, and I explained that I was laughing for no reason – I was just happy to be out on the ocean zooming along in the boat on the way to a mangrove swamp.

In all honesty, I had no idea what a mangrove actually was. I don’t even know how to use the word “mangrove.” Is a mangrove a plant? Or is it an area – a kind of ecosystem? In any event, I know that people get pretty excited about them. I was sure mangroves were interesting and pretty and full of interesting creatures, but they seemed to mean more than that to many people. They appeared to be a symbol of something good about the environment. Perhaps they are an example of pristine, untouched nature.

We drove in our boat for perhaps thirty or fort minutes. I alternated between looking through my binoculars and taking pictures with my camera. I offered my binoculars to Yvonne at one point and to be polite she used them for a minute or two. Overall, though, I got the impression that she had men’s number – we like our gear. And when it comes to gear, we are like children and it’s best to just ooh and aah at our toys and tolerate us. Myself, if someone had binoculars and I didn’t, I’d be eager to use them and loath to give them back. But Yvonne took mine, looked around, and handed them back. She was content to sit there and see what there was to see without the aid of technology.

Just south of Port Barton, the island of Palawan extends quite a ways into the ocean into a peninsula. We scooted around the base of this peninsula and then went toward shore. The land closed in on both sides and we soon found ourselves going up a small river into the mangrove.

A mangrove, I came to believe, is a type of tree that likes to put down roots in shallow water. As it grows, it sends down hundreds of roots, often in a tripod shape, into the water and the result is a vast area of complex root structures supporting a jungle above. In this particular mangrove, people get excited about seeing snakes. The young guy at the booth said that some tourists had taken pictures of a snake and then used digital wizardry to turn these pictures into post cards. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought those snakes would still be there until three o’clock. The way he talked, the snakes had a schedule and put in appearances at set times. If you miss the six a.m. show, you can catch the three p.m. show.

Our boatman ran the boat up the river for a kilometer or so and then he cut the engine. The sudden silence was wonderful. From there, he paddled the boat and we could hear just the splash of his oar, the occasional bird call and the sound of a frog dropping into the water. I got the impression we were waiting for something, and then it happened – our boatman spotted a snake curled up on a branch above us. I think the boatman relaxed after that. He got even more relaxed when five minutes later we spotted a second snake. As a guide, he had done his job. We had “bagged” a snake, and we as tourists would have a story to tell when we got back. A trip without a snake-spotting would likely be a failure and not reflect well on him as a guide.

We went fairly deep into the grove, and then at an intersection of two rivers, our guide turned the boat around and started paddling back. I had been warned many times about mosquitoes, and I had applied lots of mosquito repellant, but in the end saw none at all. I don’t think Yvonne was bothered by them either, though she, like Marick, was suffering from many bites whereas I had almost none.

When we emerged from the mangrove, our boatman suggested stopping at a place he knew for a bit of snorkeling. I thought that was a good idea and off we went. I was concerned about jelly fish, but he said that if there were a lot of jelly fish, we could just continue on our way.

Riding in the boat to the snorkeling area was one of those experiences that you try to fix in your mind and remember. In the context of being in Port Barton, it was perfectly normal. You get in a boat and you go to a beach on an island with coral reef. But from almost any other point of view, it is an extraordinary experience, a privilege, and I tried to fix it in my mind – the boat, the boatman, the roar of the engine, the splash of the waves, the fields of jelly fish, the green and blue of the water, the tropical jungle of the land, the strips of dazzling white sand, the isolated huts on the land and in the water prompting the thought “What do the people who live there DO?” No matter how hard you concentrate, though, it’s almost impossible to truly appreciate days like that. I guess one does appreciate them by living them, but it feels like they deserve more. I guess that is partially why we take pictures – to capture the moment and then look back later and see them fresh and new.

Twenty minute later, we pulled into a beautiful beach on an island. Our boatman indicated with sweeps of his hand where the coral was and then he ran the boat up onto the shore. Yvonne was quite content to be there and she set off up the beach to look for shells. For my part, I had seen loads of jelly fish in the water, and I wasn’t that keen to snorkel. I thought I’d try it though, and I got out my mask and snorkel and after putting some sunscreen on my back (I remembered very clearly getting burned practically to my spine on a similar day in Thailand) I gingerly went out into the water. There was a surprising amount of coral and loads of fish to look at, but too soon, the first giant jelly fish made an appearance. After that, I couldn’t concentrate on what was below me. I tried to look all around me and behind me and got so paranoid that I didn’t last long. Even a blue fish thought I shouldn’t be in the water. It thought I was too close to its home and it came out to drive me off. It dove at my mask again and again, and even though I was about a thousand or two thousand times bigger, his aggression freaked me out and I went to shore.

Our boatman thought it was quite funny that I was so scared of jelly fish (and the ocean in general), but I didn’t mind. I laughed about it as well. However, laughing didn’t change anything. I really wasn’t going out there again with those jelly fish. Maybe over time, I would get accustomed to them, but at the moment I was officially freaked out.

It started to rain about then, and our return journey to Port Barton wasn’t nearly as smooth or dry as our trip out. The waves got choppy and the wind blew the rain into our faces. I wondered how bad it was going to get, and just how soaked my daypack with all its expensive gear like my camera was going to get. I kicked myself again for not thinking to bring a waterproof bag. I keep wondering on just which day I will suddenly wake up and decide to take this trip seriously.

It didn’t rain that hard, and we got back to Port Barton easily. I was quite pleased with our little adventure, and Yvonne and I went off to Judy’s for a veggie-burger. At least that’s why I went there. I had seen them on their menu earlier, and had been dying to have one. I ended up ordering two plus a beer. Yvonne didn’t order any food. She seemed to live on bananas and beer. The veggie burger when it came was a tiny piece of heaven that had fallen to earth and landed between a bun. The girl said that they made it from banana blossoms and flour and lots of other things. I didn’t know what a banana blossom was let along that it was edible. It didn’t matter, though, and I enjoyed my burgers very much.

Judy herself was there that day, as was a Texan named Jim who apparently was connected to Judy in some way. Jim was very outgoing and wanted to hear all about our adventures. He volunteered all kinds of information about Port Barton as well, including the fact that there was a Canadian couple living just a short distance away. They have a job in Canada for six months of the year, and then live here for the other six. Jim had also told the other Jim (who told me) about some European who owned his own island out in the harbor and lived there. I think about all these people who live here for so many months a year or even permanently, and I wonder how it happened and how they spend their time. What do you do with your own island?

After the veggie burger, Yvonne and I parted ways. I thought I would see her that evening again, but she didn’t show up and I spent most of my time drinking beer with Jim and enjoying his stories of dancing all over the world.

 

My plan still was to leave Port Barton in the morning by bicycle, but I wasn’t entirely convinced I was going to go. I felt that I should go, but I wasn’t sure that I would especially after all the beer that I drank with Jim. When it was clear that Yvonne wasn’t going to show up (and I couldn’t drink any more beer) I set off down the beach to find dinner. I came across a place that had three groups of foreigners having a meal. It had always been empty before, but with those tables full, I thought I’d give it a try. I ordered a chicken curry again. It was the worst chicken curry I’d had, but it was still okay, and it was an okay dinner. I chatted with another foreigner briefly. He had come to Port Barton just that day from El Nido by boat. He gave me the very unwelcome news that El Nido was equally infested with jelly fish. Our boatman had said that El Nido didn’t have jelly fish, but this German man begged to differ. There were loads of the things.

I was quite tired when I returned to Ysobel’s. I would generally pack up the night before leaving, but I didn’t have the energy and I just went to bed. I slept well, and by five in the morning was stirring and thinking about leaving. I slowly worked my way awake and convinced myself that I was a cyclist who must cyclist, not a beach bum, and I heaved myself out of bed and started packing.

Packing in the dark wasn’t much fun. My floor was made of strips of bamboo and it was difficult to walk on. And my gear was all over the place, and I had no idea how to pack it. I blame it on the horrible Ortlieb bags. With bags like that, it’s impossible to get organized.

After some stumbling around and and random jamming of things into bags, my gear started to take shape. There hadn’t been any water the night before and there were still wasn’t any. So I grabbed my soap, shampoo, and a towel, and went down to the communal showers. There was water there and I took a shower. Then I started carrying the bike and all the bags down the steep and dangerous stairs. I felt like I was sleepwalking. I was wide awake, but somehow this trip just can’t seem to become real for me, and I was just drifting through it all.

Just before I set off, I realized that my cycle computer was gone – probably stolen. Apparently, someone had crept up the stairs during one of the nights to see about stealing the bike. I felt it was safe enough on the balcony and hadn’t bothered to bring it into my room. I just locked it to a thick beam. Whoever the thief was, they’d realized they couldn’t open the lock, and they had compromised by taking the Cateye cycle computer. Sigh. That, perhaps, has taught me a much needed lesson and I’ll take things a bit seriously at least from the theft and safety angle.

Theft was on my mind, because another foreigner had warned me about thieves. He’d left some clothing and other items on his balcony thinking nobody would be interested in them, but it all vanished in the night. I mentioned this to Jim, and he suddenly became quite concerned. He’d thought of Port Barton as a big happy village, and he’d been happily living in a cottage with an unlocked door. The people at Ysobel’s had never given him a key. He thought that was normal, and had just left his door completely unlocked the whole time he was there. With this story, he suddenly became concerned and he went to ask about getting a key.

I had planned to leave at the crack of dawn or even before dawn, but I didn’t manage that. I think it was about 7:00 or 7:30 when I left. I turned right outside of Ysobel’s because I understood that that was the road to Roxas. After a few meters, I realized that both tires were soft and I stopped to pump them up. This is an indication of just how casual I was. I didn’t even bother to check the tires before leaving.

I found that the road I was on didn’t go to Roxas. I had to turn around and go back the other way into Port Barton and then turn at another intersection before I found the way out. I went slow and asked people at every corner just to make sure.

The first hour out of Port Barton was very steep, and I stayed in first gear almost the entire time. I was pleased to note that my legs had loosened up as had my mind, and I was slipping into a standard cycling mood and just made my way without worrying about whether the road was going up or down or how far it was or anything. Not having the Cateye computer helped in a way because I couldn’t keep track of the distance I’d covered. Then I had no choice but to be completely in the moment and just enjoy the road and the jungle all around.

There was no one on the road with me. I think there was going to be a jeepney to Roxas and a bus to Puerto Princesa, but they wouldn’t be leaving until quite a bit later. For the moment, I was quite alone, and I enjoyed the road and the cool morning air.

It wasn’t long, however, before I began to hit the first of many, many muddy patches. Some of them were simple and I just had to get off the bike and walk it along the edge of the road. Then they got a bit longer and a bit muddier and a bit deeper, and I had to really think and plan to find a way to the other side. Sometimes I had to go almost in the jungle at the side and I got covered in burrs and thorns. I tried at the beginning to keep my feet and sandals out of the mud, but that quickly became a losing battle. I realized that the bike and I were going to be covered in mud from head to foot and there wasn’t anything I could do about.

Soon, I hit the first of the major mud wallows. My jaw dropped when I saw it. I knew I would get my bicycle through it somehow, but I couldn’t imagine how any vehicle like a bus could manage it. Even my bicycle wasn’t going to be wheeled through this mud hole. The sides of the trenches were feet deep, and the mud was as deep as my calves. It was brown liquid goo, and all I could do was take all the bags off the bike and then slowly carry everything through the mud. I made three trips, the last trip with my bike hoisted in the air, and when I was done, I was muddy up to my knees and beyond.

In the end, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. I had to take the bags off the bike and carry everything in stages only twice. Every other time, I managed to still wheel the bike through. At one of the two really big mud wallows, I stopped to watch a truck that was trying to make its way through. The truck’s crew knew that it wasn’t going to be easy, and they didn’t even try it without first going in with shovels and trying to clean up the worst of it. Then the driver of the truck tried to drive through and it was hopeless. He just sank into the mud within ten feet and was hopelessly stuck.

I looked at that truck and could see no way that it was ever going to get out. I didn’t, however, count on how many times this had happened before. This was a weekly if not daily experience for these guys, and they went to work. Their main weapon was the winch on the front of the truck. Without that, I don’t think they could ever have gotten out. I thought they’d tie the cable to a handy tree, but apparently that didn’t work as well or as consistently and they’d developed their own system. They went to the truck and got out a steel sledge hammer and a steel pin. The pin was four feet long and it had a solid cap on it. They took turns with the sledgehammer and drove this pin into the ground and then wrapped the cable around it. It was clear they’d done this before. The average person might have balked at how difficult it was to drive the pin into the ground. They might have tried to winch out the truck when the pin was still sticking out a foot or so. These guys drove it all the way in. They were patient and kept hammering until the top of the steel pin was just an inch out of the ground. I think they learned by trial and error that leaving the pin even partly out of the ground would mean that the winch would just yank it out. It was best to do it right from the start.

When the cable was attached, they started up the winch and the engine of the truck together. I was somewhat surprised to see the truck start to smoothly pull itself out of the hole. I wasn’t clear on just what kind of power a winch has. I got out my camera and took a picture of them hammering the pin and then I took a picture before the truck engaged the winch. Yvonne might have doubted my manly abilities, and I may be out of it these days, but I have seen a few things in my life, and there was no way I was going to stand anywhere near that cable as it drew taught. If it snapped or came loose, it would probably snake around with enough force to cut a person in half. It certainly would injure you. The crew also knew this and probably had witnessed it, because they stood well back, and the guy who attached the cable to the winch literally ran away as soon as the winch engaged. He wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.

The truck didn’t come out in one motion. They had to go at it a few times and adjust the winch several times, but with the engine roaring, the truck slowly came out. Then the crew had to get the pin out of the ground, and that was as hard as putting it in. They went at that patiently as well, and just worked at it till it was done. They were very practiced at this whole procedure. Some women and other passengers had been waiting in the shade, and I assume they all piled into the truck again and got underway. I say “assume” because I cycled ahead of them, and I never saw them again. I guessed that they got stuck once or twice more and had to go through the whole laborious process again.

My mood was excellent as far as the cycling went. I’d left early enough that it was cool and pleasant most of this time. The road was also covered by heavy growth on both sides, and even when the sun came out from behind the clouds, it didn’t beat down on the road and my poor uncovered head. I also enjoyed the variety of challenges that the road threw at me. At times, I was grinding my way uphill at 4 kilometers per hour. At other times, I was zooming along smooth packed sand. Then I’d be ankle-deep in syrupy mud carrying my bike on my shoulder. Other times, I’d just be walking the bike. It was never boring, and I liked the sense of going slowly and just working my way over the mountains. I knew that it wasn’t far to Roxas and no matter how tough the road got, I’d get there eventually. For a while, I thought Id get there in no time. There were two villages on the road between Port Barton and the intersection with the main road. I thought I’d passed the first one ages ago and was racing toward the second. It was a bit of a setback to learn that I was nowhere near the first village yet. In fact, it was right after the mud wallow where the truck was stuck.

All too soon, though, the muddy wallows stopped. After that village, the road got better and smoother. I started to see tricycles and then I knew that the adventure was largely behind me. I already missed the mud wallows.

I reached San Jose at the intersection around 11:30 which meant my trip had taken an easy three hours or so. I had just put my bike under some shade and was sitting down to get my bearings when the Roxas jeepney from Port Barton appeared on the road. It stopped at the intersection to let people off, and I rode my bike over to see if Yvonne was onboard. There were no white people on the right side, but when I went to the other side I saw window after window of white skin, and I saw that Yvonne was onboard. We chatted for a minute or two, and then the jeepney started to move. I thought I’d catch up with her in Roxas as she waited for her next jeepney or bus, and I was right. It was 22 kilometers from Port Barton to San Jose according to the sign, and then 10 kilometers from there to Roxas. The 10 kilometers on that hot pavement were actually much more trying than the 22 kilometers of bad road. Smooth pavement can be a bit monotonous, and out there in the open, the sun becomes a powerful presence searing your skull. I wasn’t too pleased to find that my right crank assembly suddenly started to wobble all over the place. In Cambodia, it was the left side. Now the right side was going to give me problems. I stopped and tightened it up and it seemed to be okay. Hopefully it just came loose and it doesn’t mean that it has worn out.

About half a kilometer from downtown Roxas, I saw Yvonne and the other white people outside a roadside restaurant. They had been dropped off there to wait for the bus that would take them on. Yvonne, I found out, was only going as far as Taytay. I liked that she was doing that. It was a little bit outside the norm as everyone would likely be going all the way to El Nido. She also said that it has the advantage of getting her away from a very annoying man on the jeepney and now the bus. Apparently, he is in the tourism business and he was talking her ear off about all the things he could help her with in El Nido. She was happy to tell him that she was only going to Taytay. I picked this guy out right away, because he zeroed in on my alligator t-shirt. Till that minute, I really didn’t know why the t-shirt had a big alligator on it. This guy started talking about the alligator farm outside Puerto. Then I realized that this was a famous place and that is why my t-shirt had an alligator on it. I’d purchased an “I’ve been to the alligator farm” t-shirt without actually having been there.

I stayed and talked for a while, and then I said goodbye and rode on to Roxas to look for a hotel. It was likely that I would run into Yvonne again in Taytay as she was going to spend two nights there. I’d likely get there the next day on my bicycle.

 

Roxas, in the heat of the midday sun, didn’t seem like much of a place. It had a main street, a few shops, an undeveloped waterfront, and that’s about it. I rode my bike around looking for a hotel and didn’t see any. Then I rode my bike to the water. I saw some touristy looking people heading toward a big boat and I guessed this was the Coco Loco shuttle boat. I spoke to some people and found out that I was right. A Filipina there was wearing a Coco Loco t-shirt and she told me that a cottage there cost 1,800 pesos a night and that included the boat and three meals. That isn’t a terrible deal, but I didn’t want to go out to the island and I asked her about hotels in Roxas. She mentioned two, and that reassured me there were places to stay. I just had to find them. I rode my bike along the cement wharf and suddenly I had a flat tire! I wasn’t happy about that, but I reflected that the timing was pretty good. If I had to have a flat tire, it’s better to get it in Roxas then out there on that road. Now I could just roll the bike to a hotel and fix it at my leisure.

I ended up staying at a big rambling sort of place with a nice garden and great atmosphere called Dona Nela’s. I went somewhere else first, and almost took a room, but I thought better of it and thought I should at least see the competition. I’m glad I did, because this place suits me to a T. The other place would have been very average. This place has personality.

I worked on the bike in the yard for a while and was pleased that the flat was fixed pretty easily. My patch with glue seemed to be holding all right. I also cleaned off as much mud as I could.

Then came something of a surprise and yet another sign that this is the worst-planned trip I’ve ever taken. I’d seen there was a bank in Roxas, and I thought I’d be smart and see about changing money here. I had more than enough money to get me to El Nido, but I was learning to take nothing for granted and I thought I should check it out.

Getting into the bank was my first surprise. I didn’t know the system, and I just grabbed the doors and tried to yank them open. The proper thing to do was to wait for the guard with the loaded shotgun to take the steel bar off the door first and let you in! I didn’t even know he was there because the doors were frosted and I couldn’t see him. I don’t think he was pleased that I tried to just yank the doors open.

Then I didn’t know what to do. I stood there for a long time looking around. It was a very small bank. It didn’t even look like a bank, actually. It looked more like a general store. I finally noticed that everyone had a number. So I asked the guard if I needed to take a number. He gave me number 30. Then I sat and waited and waited and waited and waited. I don’t know what their transactions were, but the customers each took forever. I realized that the bank was going to close at 3:00 before I’d get served. So I got up and asserted myself. I didn’t want to jump the line, but I was pretty certain that the one teller wouldn’t be the person to change money anyway.

People finally seemed to notice me, and I was waved to a desk at the back. Then I got my surprise: Not only doesn’t the Palawan Bank change traveler’s cheques. They don’t even change money! They have no access to foreign exchange information and literally don’t change money at all. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and I gave the guy a bit of a hard time about that. How can a bank not change money? How can a bank in a tourist town on a tourist island not change money? I still wasn’t that concerned, because I had planned on changing money in El Nido anyway. Then I got my next surprise: The bank guy told me that Palawan Bank was the only bank in both Taytay and El Nido. He wasn’t 100% positive that they don’t change money either, but he was quite sure that they wouldn’t change traveler’s cheques. Thinking I was being smart, I had brought half cash and half traveler’s cheques. If I were super-cheap, I would still be able to get by on the money I have plus the $300 US I still have in cash. But I didn’t want to be super-cheap, and I realized that I would probably have to go all the way back to Puerto Princesa to go to a bank to change money! The thought didn’t thrill me, but it wasn’t the end of the world either. I decided to just make the best of it. I have a comfortable place to stay in Roxas, and I would just leave all my stuff here and then make a dash to Puerto and back by shuttle van. I went down to the shuttle van area and made a reservation for six in the morning. I really didn’t want to miss out on this opportunity. If I miss this one, I’m really in trouble because unbeknownst to me, this weekend coming up is Easter weekend, and the whole country is shutting down starting on Thursday. If I don’t manage to change money tomorrow (Wednesday), then I won’t have another chance for perhaps another five days – next Tuesday. Ah, the way I plan trips is scary.

1:05 a.m.

I was proud of myself earlier for breaking my streak of staying at the first place I see. I thought by checking out different places and choosing the one that suited me, I’d end up happier and in a nicer place. It turns out I should have let the world choose for me after all. Dona Nela’s is dominated and totally destroyed by the world’s loudest and most obnoxious karaoke bar. I couldn’t believe it when this monster started up. I thought at first that I was being punished for choosing this room. The woman here showed me one room, and in keeping with my new pattern, I asked to see another one, and I chose the second one. It seemed a bit brighter and nicer because it had two windows I guess. It turns out that the karaoke bar is directly, literally directly, under my window. And the glass in the window is smashed, so the sound comes directly in. I have a shuttle van coming at six in the morning to take me to Puerto and I went to bed early to get some sleep, but I’ve been lying here listening to this awful screeching and caterwauling ever since. I was dealing with it okay for a while, but it shows no sign of ever letting up and it’s so loud and stupid that I’m about to lose my mind.

I thought perhaps it was this room, but I went back and looked at the other room I was shown earlier. It was still open, and I went in and closed the door and windows, but the karaoke was just as loud. I walked the full length of this huge hotel and didn’t find a single bit that wasn’t inundated with this horrible sound. It’s lucky that like most hotels in this part of the world, they lock up tight at night. I’m not really able to get out. If I could get out, I might go cause some trouble. And I really shouldn’t. It’s not really their fault. It’s just a karaoke bar in the Philippines. They like their music loud and obnoxious and crass. There’s nothing I can do about that. It’s a bit unfortunate that they stay up this late even on a Tuesday night, but again there isn’t anything I can do about it. What DOES get me angry is when I think about the people at this hotel who rented me the room. They knew the karaoke bar was there, and they knew what was going to happen, but they never said a word. They just rented me the room. They could have mentioned it or perhaps made an attempt to get me quieter room – though as I said, I don’t think there is one. I’m trying to have a sense of humor about it, and I was successful for a while. Now I’m just tired and ready to kill someone. I’m looking forward to tomorrow when I can tell the people at this hotel what I think about them.

The unfortunate thing there is that they are wonderfully nice people. They went out of their way to make me feel welcome. I spent some time chatting with the man who owns or at least runs the place, and he was a sweetheart who would likely be willing to bend over backwards for his guests. I mentioned my money changing problem, and he said that if it were earlier he might have been able to do something for me locally. There’s just nothing I can do but lie here and take it. I did get a little childish and I yelled out the window at them to shut-p and go to bed. Then I got out my flashlight and shined it in the eyes of some people that were hanging out in front and screaming and yelling. I imagine they know it’s a crazy foreigner up here doing these things, so I’m not doing anything for international relations. I don’t care though. I suppose if it were a disco or something, I’d be more understanding. But karaoke! Despised karaoke. Drunken warbling and screeching and that endless throbbing bass. I really didn’t think it would last this long. I have half a mind to go wake up the people who run the place and get them to do something. The other rooms would also be noisy, but perhaps not as noisy as this one. But it’s so late now that it would hardly make any difference. It’s going to be time to get up soon to get on that shuttle van. I hope the money-changing trip goes a bit smoothly because I’m sensing some irritation building up. I might end taking some bank dude by the throat and strangling him if he tells me that he can’t take American Express traveler’s checks. That would be too much.

I don’t think I’m the first foreigner on Palawan to get annoyed at loud and obnoxious music. I’ve heard a number of people make a comment here and there about how they like their music excessively loud. I got my own little taste of that this evening when I finally roused myself to get something to eat. I went to a couple of restaurants, but they were all closed – or at least there were no people around. I was glad then to find that this friendly place called Mama Cita’s was open. There wasn’t anyone around, but there was a bell on a rope by the desk and I rang it two times and a woman came. She said that they were open and she let me choose from the menu on the wall. I ordered something simple, and then settled down at a table. A minute later, the music started. It was loud and awful. They’d even managed to somehow distort the channels so that all the instruments came out of this giant speaker in the room, and all the vocals came out of a different speaker that was somehow in the back room. The music was either Air Supply or some band imitating them.

I think I’ve figured out why they don’t seem to have much trouble with older foreign men marrying younger women from the Philippines – they are born romantics. The only songs they listen to are sappy love songs – the sappier and cornier the better. It’s an odd experience, because all the songs are in English. They are the songs that we’ve been hearing forever in Canada and now consider to be totally outdated and almost embarrassing. Here, they sing them with total commitment and feeling.

 

It’s 1:30 now and they’re still going strong. If I were childish, I would give them another blast from my flashlight. I’m just praying for a power failure. There was one around 10:30, and I thought I was given a reprieve. However, the power came back on a short time later and it’s been loud and obnoxious music ever since. I wish I could punch someone.

 

Tags: bike, El Nido, music, Palawan Bike Trip, Port Barton