Wednesday, March 19

It’s 10:30 in the morning and I am already in Puerto Princesa and about to enjoy a cup of coffee amidst the frenetic traffic.

Things never did get better last night. The karaoke machine finally wound down at 3:30 in the morning. The silence was blessed, but there wasn’t enough of it as I had set my alarm for 5:00 to get ready for my 6:00 a.m. shuttle van to Puerto. I fell asleep almost instantly when the music stopped, but it was for a very short time.

I showered and shaved and otherwise got prepared for my trip to the big city. Doing anything these days is quite complicated as these Ortlieb bags don’t let me develop any kind of a packing system. Everything is just a giant mess and I never know where anything else. I spend quite a bit of time every day bandaging up my various wounds. The infected blisters on my ankles are not getting better despite a constant application of iodine-soaked bandages. I’m using this same method on all the infected bites that I have all over my legs. I have no idea what these infections begin as. They could be just mosquito bites, but I don’t remember ever getting bit or seeing any raised welts. I have seven of them now spread out over my two legs. Two more just appeared out of nowhere on my left ankle this morning, and I had to put bandaids on those as well. I’m glad I bought that big box of waterproof bandaids. They have been a big help.

I was locked into the hotel, but at least it was easy to get out. I didn’t have to get keys or wake up a guard or anything. I just had to undo the lock on the inside and go out. Then the adventures began. The day was pretty much primed to go wrong considering how tired and irritable I was.

Yesterday, I’d arranged with the guys at the shuttle van to be picked up at six. The price was 180 pesos. I had no idea if that was a regular price or foreigner price, but it seemed reasonable. I’d been sitting near the gate of the hotel for about five minutes when a guy showed up on a scooter. He seemed almost lost, but I understood he was from the shuttle van company. He said that he was looking for the conductor that I had spoken to the previous day. I didn’t know why and we went around in circles for a while. Then we finally came to it: they were trying to run a scam whereby they could charge me 1,000 pesos for the trip. He said that there were no people for the van and therefore they weren’t going. The only way I could go was to rent a van all by myself for 1,000. I was in no mood to be screwed around and I let him have it. I told him about my karaoke trouble and that I had no sleep at all and I was in a bad mood. “Don’t mess with me,” I was telling him.

He then said that if I wasn’t willing to pay 1,000 then we’d have to wait for the van from St. Vincent. I didn’t know why that would be, and he didn’t speak in concrete terms. The upshot was that he wanted me to wait there, and they would come back and get me if the van from St. Vicente came. I didn’t like that idea one bit and said I would just walk to the shuttle bus station. I figured that if I was physically there, then at least I could hop on whatever vehicle was going somewhere. My guy offered me a lift on his scooter and we were there in a minute or two.

He wanted me to sit down by the shuttle van, but I preferred to stand and walk around and see what else was happening in terms of transportation. The guy knew I was really pissed off, and he spoke to the other guys in Tagalog. He asked again if I didn’t want to go in my own private van for 1,000 pesos. I said no. He talked to them some more, and then suddenly he opened the front door of the van and invited me to get in and take a seat. “Only you,” he said. “Just for you only. We will take you. Regular price.” Or something like that.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he seemed to be saying that he felt bad about trying to rip me off, and now he was going to take me to Puerto in my own private van for 180 pesos. I didn’t believe it for a minute, but I didn’t care and I got in. The same guy got into the driver’s seat. I asked him if he was the driver, and he said no. He said he was the roaming guy. And that is what he did. He roamed around the streets of Puerto blowing his horn and trying to scare up passengers to Puerto. We drove around three or four times, picked up one person and then went back to the van station. A different guy got behind the wheel, and then we went through Roxas a second time. This time he had specific addresses to go to and people were waiting for him at every point. I was supposed to be one of those people except that they tried to con me.

After picking them all up, we went back to the van station again and parked. Now I had to go to the bathroom, and I hopped out of the van and asked them if there was a bathroom. They waved behind the building. I went back there and saw a kind of sheltered area, but the door was jammed shut and I couldn’t get it open. I went back to the front and told them that I couldn’t find the bathroom. They waved me toward the back again, but I stood my ground and asked for more info than that. Finally, the guy points across the station to a nice big building that was clearly a bathroom divided in two – men on the right and women on the left. Why he didn’t point out the actual bathroom before that, I can’t imagine. Perhaps he was trying to save me the 2 pesos the dirty old fellow sitting in front charged me.

Finally, we were all set to go, but of course we didn’t go. We just drove around Roxas a couple of more times blowing the horn and generally annoying people and making the world a worse place to live in. The whole experience drove home the worst side of that kind of travel and why I have gravitated toward travel by bicycle.

The drive to Puerto was fairly uneventful. The road was paved the whole way and we went slowly at first looking for more and more passengers. The scenery was quite nice, much nicer than the scenery near Puerto where I had already cycled. It was much more lush and jungley and tropical.

The next little surprise was that shuttle vans like this (and I guess all forms of transportation) don’t actually go into Puerto. By law, they are required to stop at a terminal outside the city limits. It is a nice policy I suppose, aimed at reducing traffic and congestion in the city. However, I didn’t know about any of this, and I was annoyed that I had to now find another form of transportation to get me into the city. I was in a terribly bad mood still, but the next leg was relatively simple though odd. I just wanted to get a tricycle to Rizal Avenue, and I had one guy lined up for that trip. However, he disappeared by the time I’d paid the driver of the shuttle van. Then I approached a long line of tricycles, but they were reluctant to take me. They kept pointing me toward some kind of small white trucks saying that they only cost 10 pesos while the tricycles cost 20 pesos. I didn’t care. I just wanted my own vehicle to drive me. I didn’t want to get jammed in there with all those people and have no idea where I was going. One guy finally agreed to take me in a tricycle, but to my surprise he brought me over to one that already had three people, a rooster, and twelve coconuts in it. I guess even the tricycles from there were shared. I got in anyway, and off we went. We dropped people off here and there and picked up others. It was slow, but we made steady progress. I didn’t really recognize anything, but I had a sense of where we were. Finally, we turned onto Rizal right by Bonito and the tricycle driver brought me to the Allied Bank. The next part of my education was about to begin.

The Allied Bank was very sorry, but they didn’t accept traveler’s cheques. They told me to go to BDO. I went there, and the security guard told me they didn’t change traveler’s checks. I went inside anyway and confirmed it with someone inside. I wasn’t happy about this as I pictured a completely wasted trip. I was starting to feel rather dumb with my wad of useless traveler’s checks. I let a few people know about my feelings. I pressed them on why they didn’t accept traveler’s checks, but no one had any reason for it. Nor was anyone willing to sympathize with my predicament. I even came out with the lame accusatory line about how they want tourists to come to Palawan, but then they won’t change money for the tourists? They, of course, didn’t care at all. They got that glazed look that all service people get when they have an unruly customer on their hands. My last hope was Metro Bank. The woman I spoke to at a desk gave me a very sorrowful look when I mentioned traveler’s checks. They did in fact accept them, but they really didn’t like to. I got the impression that by lunch time they would stop accepting them, and I had gotten in just under the wire. For all the trouble I was causing them, they were going to charge me $4 for each check! Injury added to injury. Banks really are evil. I guess I should have done my homework for this trip, but I just didn’t, so there it is.

I let the woman know I wasn’t happy about the high service charge, but that I had no choice but to change with them. They had the only game in town as far as I knew. Then she said she would need a photocopy of my passport. I’m very glad that I happened to have one in my money belt. Otherwise, she might have gotten an earful. They are going to gouge me with a 4% service charge and then make me go outside and get my own photocopy?! I was really ready to turn into the ugly Canadian. I think much of my inability to deal with all of this naturally comes from my completely blasé attitude toward planning the trip. What was I expecting, for Pete’s sake? This is the Philippines, and a fairly remote island in the Philippines. I don’t know why I was so surprised when my morning’s shuttle van ride became so complicated. That’s just the way things are. I guess I just hadn’t visualized the trip at all. I’m like a sleepwalker traveler.

I had just managed to mentally adjust myself to the whole traveler’s checks thing when the woman came back and interrupted me. I was counting out my traveler’s checks, and she said, “Sir, we have a $250 limit per transaction.” I looked at her and said, “Please tell me you’re joking. You have to be joking.”

She wasn’t joking though, and I gave her a look that could have killed. I think it was the arbitrariness of it that bothered me. What the heck was a “transaction”? If I changed $200 now and then walked out the door and walked back inside a second time, was that a second transaction? She said it was the same transaction because I was the same customer. What if I came back in the afternoon? The next day? The next week? Next year? When does it cease to be part of the same transaction? She just grimaced at me and hoped that I would soon disappear from her day. I could sense that I was really upset by this point, and it was best to keep my mouth shut. I simply handed over two one-hundred-dollar checks and then looked at my hands till the process was done. She gave me a bunch of things to sign. I signed them wordlessly. I didn’t even bother to count the money she gave me. I just put it away, said “Thank you” and left. I never made eye-contact again. It’s a good thing, because the guards there had loaded shotguns and it likely wasn’t a good idea to go nuts inside the bank and yell at people. And of course, none of this was her fault or the bank’s fault. The karaoke wasn’t her fault. It’s just the way it is, and if I was dumb enough to come to Palawan with traveler’s checks and then blindly waltz out of Puerto without changing enough money, well, that was my fault. And it could have been much worse. For one thing, I was only in Roxas and it was a relatively simple thing to get back here to Puerto.

This woman also gave me one good piece of advice. She said that money changers would accept traveler’s checks. When she said that, I was pleased, but I was also annoyed. Why hadn’t anyone in any of the banks told me this till now? I’d had long conversations with various bank employees explaining my predicament and how I’d come all the way back from Roxas. I joked that I’d have to just get on a jet and go back to Canada because I wouldn’t be able to change money. Yet, no one chimed in with the suggestion of going to a money changer. Myself, I had assumed that money changers wouldn’t take traveler’s checks. If banks couldn’t handle the transaction, how could some guy in a pawn shop? Yet, this is capitalism, and if you are willing to take a bad enough exchange rate, someone somewhere is willing to help you and take the profit. I had no choice. I bit the bullet and went back to Bonito.

The same two guys were there and I changed all the traveler’s checks I had at a stupendously bad rate. They were very good about it though. They didn’t hide behind “policy.” They explained how it worked and how they had to wait for months before they could process the checks. And they had to go through banks, and they would charge them all kinds of fees. In the end, to make a profit, they could only offer the rate of 34 pesos to the dollar. That’s really awful, but I was busy looking at the bright side. At least I would have money. In fact, I would have far too much money! I don’t think there is any way I can spend all the pesos I now have tucked away into my knapsack. That’s okay, though. The funny thing is that I got the traveler’s checks for the simple reason that they would be more secure. That’s the whole point behind the things – if they are stolen, then American Express will replace them. But the whole thing seems supremely pointless now. At every stage, you pay a hefty commission. And then on Palawan you get such a poor rate. And if I can’t even change them at banks, what are the chances of calling American Express and getting a refund? I’d say absolutely nil. I think if the checks were stolen, I’d just be screwed.

The Bonito brothers were nice though, and I enjoyed the exchange. It was certainly a lot better than dealing with a bank. One of my goals in Puerto was to eat at that nice restaurant again. I went there, but they were still closed. They didn’t open until eleven. So I went back to Shakey’s for another pizza. Many of my meals lately have been simply a little bowl of rice and a fried dead fish staring up at me on a plate. The fish have actually been quite tasty, but the presentation leaves a lot to be desired and it doesn’t feel like much of a meal. It’s funny, but the first place I went to in Roxas looked like the kind of place that would cater to foreigners. Of course it was empty, and I went in there sort of apologetically, asking if they were open and if they had any food. The guy said they had fish and rice, so that is what I had. They did have a huge menu, though. It was a professionally done menu filled with all kinds of tasty dishes. I pointed this out to the guy and asked why, if they had all this, they only had fish and rice. He said that that was the “new menu” and it didn’t come into effect until March 21. If I waited three days, I could order anything I wanted off that menu. For now, just rice and fish. My timing really could be better.

 

Returning to Roxas was a lot easier than going to Puerto. I knew some of the ropes now and found my way quite easily. I got a tricycle to take me to the San Jose Terminal since I knew that the shuttle vans to Roxas left from there. I also had a better idea of the cost of tricycle rides. I was told by a woman at the terminal that it cost about 15 pesos to go into town from the terminal. However, that doesn’t hire the whole tricycle. The guy needs four people to make it worth his while which brings the total for a trip like that to at least 60 pesos plus a bit extra for other people he picks up and drops off along the way. This time I had the whole tricycle to myself, and the guy took me right to a place where a shuttle van had a big “Roxas” sign on the window. This was a GT Express van, which was in competition with the one that brought me in in the morning. I was glad to be giving the competition some business. He charged me 70 pesos for the ride and I paid it happily. To be honest, though, it was probably a bit high especially when you consider that it costs 180 pesos to go all the way to Roxas. In any event, I got there without a problem and there was a van almost ready to go. They just needed three more passengers. Within half an hour, three more showed up and we were off. During my wait, I chatted with a Filipino who turned out to be a pastor in Roxas. I gave something of a confession by telling him that I had been in a very bad mood that morning after my sleepless night and that I had been impatient with people. I said that I was in a good mood now. And I sort of was, now that my pockets were bulging with pesos.

We got back to Roxas in record time – under two hours. I was paying more attention and realized that it was quite a beautiful ride along the ocean. It would have been nice to cycle it. Once in Roxas, I went straight to Rover’s and booked a room. I didn’t want to mess around. I didn’t know if I was leaving the next morning or not, but regardless, I wanted out of Dona Nela’s. I asked them for an air-con room at Rover’s and when I saw the room so quickly after leaving my room at Dona Nela’s, I couldn’t believe the difference. It was a beautiful room. It was by far the nicer place to stay, and of course that’s why I stayed at Dona Nela’s. It’s my famous instinct to pick out the worst of all options.

I went back to Dona Nela’s to pack up and pay. I couldn’t pay because “my lady” wasn’t there as the man there always says. He can’t seem to do anything himself. It is always up to “my lady.” I did pack, though. And then I sat with the man and chatted for a bit. While I was sitting there I decided to take off the band aids I had put on that morning. My legs had been hurting all afternoon, and it looked like they were starting to swell. I pulled of the band aids and I was horrified at what I saw. The wounds had all gotten much worse and when the band aids came off, all kinds of thick green puss came out of each wound. A big area around each wound had gone red and swollen. Apparently putting iodine and band aids on these things wasn’t the way to go. The longer I looked at them, the more concerned I got. If they got that bad in just a few hours, I didn’t want to think about what could happen if I left them untreated for another day as I cycled to Taytay.

There was a big pharmacy at my new hotel, and I went there and showed them my wounds to see if they could suggest something. They really didn’t know. They just grabbed things off the shelf and shoved them at me. They handed me the usual suspects: insect repellant, sun block, katialis cream, and anti-fungal creams. They didn’t seem to get that I was looking for something a bit more medicinal. While I was there, my legs started to really hurt and it became painful to put any weight on my left foot. I started to think it would be wise to have a professional look at them. I chatted with the ladies at the pharmacy and learned that there was a hospital in Roxas. I carried my bags up to my new wonderful air-conditioned room and then rode my bike out to the hospital.

It was the Palawan Baptist Hospital. The place was fairly rough and ready, but I can’t complain about the treatment I got. A nurse took my blood pressure and took a sketchy kind of medical history. Then they got down to business. They laid me down on a bed and pulled up a table with a bunch of instruments on it. They debrided all the wounds, which I have to say was a bit painful. However, it also felt good. These wounds were incredibly itchy, and as the nurse cut away flesh and dug in there with the scissors it felt wonderful, like she was scratching them. Then she treated all eight of my open wounds with a variety of things to clean them and disinfect them. The doctor recommended a tetanus booster as well. They gave me one shot in my right arm. Then they gave me a test injection in my arm. I had to wait for thirty minutes to see if I reacted. I didn’t, which made me feel like I’d passed a test of some kind. My reward, though, was not an A, but an injection in my left arm. I feel well and truly protected against tetanus now. The doctor felt my legs were quite infected and she also recommended a course of antibiotics which she prescribed and gave me right then and there. My bill came to about 600 pesos or $15. I was very glad I went to the hospital and I felt some relief as I rode away.

I was none the wiser, though. The nurses and the doctor were certain that I had been bitten by a local insect called a “nik nik”. They were quite funny about that and said that the nik niks loved the tasty white flesh of newly-arrived foreigners. Then they said I had likely scratched the nik nik bites and had developed bacterial infections in them all. The thing is that I don’t remember scratching them particularly. I’ve been scratching my sides and my chest and my arms and my thighs, but I don’t think I’ve been scratching my lower legs. If I did scratch them, it was just a cursory sort of scratch. I don’t think the scratching really had much to do with the infections. I just get infected very easily. A similar thing happened to me on my first trip to the Philippines. At that time, mosquito bites got infected and I developed big round wounds as well as horrible infections between my toes. My treatment at that time was much more primitive than I received at this hospital, but then too, I had to get a course of antibiotics and antibiotic cream to clear it up. Without that, I doubt they ever would have healed. I saw many Filipinos with the exact same infected wounds and it looked they had had them forever.

It was dark by the time I left the hospital, but there was enough moonlight to cycle down the road as long as I was careful. The hospital was about two kilometers away from downtown and I got back quickly. I stopped by Dona Nela’s on my way and paid my bill. My Lady was there this time and she had my bill prepared. She added 150 pesos to the bill for my late check-out. I was more than happy to pay it, but of course that late check-out is really just an artifact from the outside real world where by checking out late you deny them a room for the next guest. At Dona Nela’s you could occupy a room for ten years and never deny them space for another guest. I was the only person in that huge place the first night, and by moving out, I left them without any guests at all. I didn’t get the impression that it was exactly a going concern. The man of the place was much more concerned with sitting around than doing any work. Whenever anything needed to be done, he simply said something about My Lady and left it at that.

They treated me very well, though. When I first arrived, I still had my flat tire and I repaired it outside on their lawn. I asked if they had any cold drinks, but they didn’t. It wasn’t a problem though, because they could send The Boy to the store to buy them. I did one of those things that only seems to work in the movies. I said that I’d like a cold drink, and they could get a little something for themselves for their trouble. I asked for two Cokes for myself, and since there was The Boy and My Lady present, that meant four Cokes. I gave The Boy 100 pesos. He went off and got the four Cokes, kept the change, and put the two extra Cokes in the fridge probably to be sold later to another guest. The whole idea of buying someone a drink as a social thing went right out the window. The dumb white guy was giving away things, so let’s take them!

After I finished fixing my flat and getting all the mud off my bike, I settled into my room and took a shower. It was still quite early since the distance from Port Barton to Roxas was not that great. I sat down at a table in their cavernous and empty dining hall and asked if they could make me a cup of coffee. That involved The Boy going to the store for a 3 in 1 Nescafe package. In the meantime, I settled in at my table, opened the window to let in a breeze, and My Lady brought a fan over. I sat there happily for a couple of hours drinking Nescafe. I had three cups of Nescafe and each time The Boy had to be sent to the store to buy one. I’ve since purchased a dozen myself and I keep them in my daypack for future such emergencies.

So overall, they treated me well. It was the karaoke that drove me out. I explained that to the man of the house after my hospital trip. He seemed totally taken aback, though I don’t know how he could be. The noise of the karaoke thundered throughout the entire hotel, and I’m sure it goes on every night. How could he not be aware of it? My light criticism of his establishment led me to talk a bit about the place. He said that it wasn’t quite finished. He had been cheated by some construction companies and many of his plans for improvements were still on hold. He talked a lot about a fiesta that was going to take place in May and how he had to get the place in shape for that fiesta. He also said he’d been contacted by the Palawan government and that they had a plan to organize cycling tours around the island and they wanted to know if he could accommodate their tour groups. He told them “first come, first served”, meaning I suppose that he wasn’t going to make any promises. He had rooms (sort of), and if they wanted to fill them with cyclists, that was fine with him. But anything more than that, and they’d likely have to talk to My Lady.

Apparently My Lady had been a bit worried about me skipping out on my bill. When I finally moved all of my stuff over to Rover’s, the lady there said that My Lady had already been there looking for me. I was a bit hurt by this. After all, I’d been in constant communication and had made honest attempts to pay. She had just never been there, and I told the man of the house that I was going to go to Rover’s and move in and then come back to see if My Lady was there. The trip to the hospital occurred in the middle, so that is why she was concerned I suppose.

 

I spent an extremely comfortable night at Rover’s. The room was easily four times bigger than my cubby hole at Dona Nela’s. It also had an air conditioner that was more than powerful enough to really chill the room. The bathroom was also big and roomy and had all the normal fixtures. The bathroom at Dona Nela’s had no fixtures at all and was a narrow cement closet. The room at Rover’s had nice furniture including a desk and chair, while Dona Nela’s monk’s chamber had two beds and that was all. Best of all, my room at Rover’s was completely quiet. The only bothersome thing was that the lights from the hallway shone through a window above the door and lit up the whole room even when the lights were off. I dealt with that by wearing eyeshades, and I slept very well. In fact, I slept almost too well. I had plans to be on the road long before dawn. I’d even gone so far as to talk to the guard with the shotgun to make sure that I wouldn’t be locked in if I left at 5 or 5:30 in the morning. As it turns out, I didn’t even open my eyes until 5:30. I also hadn’t packed at all the night before, so it took me a while to get ready. While packing, I had an egg sandwich and a hamburger for breakfast. I’d picked up two hamburgers and two egg sandwiches from Mama Cita’s the night before. I thought I could have two of them for breakfast and then save two of them to eat on the road. I hadn’t seen too many places to eat on the road here and thought it best to be prepared.

I had become quite fond of Mama Cita’s in my short time in Roxas. Despite my trouble with the karaoke, having to go to Puerto to change money, and then having to go to the hospital, I had become quite fond of Roxas. I like little towns like that assuming I can find one place where I can settle in with a cup of coffee at a table. I had found that place in Mama Cita’s, and with that I could have hung out there for a while quite comfortably. There was nothing in particular to see or do in Roxas. It was just a typical little Filipino town. But even in a typical little town, there was a lot to interest me. The fact that it was a typical little town makes it interesting. I heard rumors that there were some Danish tourists in town, but I never saw them.

Mama Cita’s was just as quiet that second night as it was the first. The streets were also dark and empty. Most of the shops closed up right at sunset, and there were no lights to speak of. There were no people at the tables and no one else around that I could see. I just rang the bell, and two little children came running out to see what was up. They saw me and went to get Mama Cita. I had told her I would be back for dinner, and she was glad to see me.

In such empty places, I feel a bit awkward ordering anything. I feel like it disrupts their evening. However, Mama Cita was eager to make me something. I ordered her famous Chicken Insala plus a hamburger and a Coke. Then I ordered my two hamburgers and two egg sandwiches to go. The whole bill came to 220 pesos or about $5.

I never did see Mama Cita’s in action, but perhaps it also got active later at night. There was a large and very scary karaoke machine in evidence. While I was eating, two very drunk men came in and sat down with a couple of giant Colt 45 bottles of beer. They stumbled over to my table and shook my hand and said that they had to sit out back. Mama Cita said they weren’t allowed to do any karaoke while I was there having dinner. Perhaps my shouting out the window the previous night had gotten around town and people were aware that the white guy on a bike was not a fan of drunken warbling.

I had felt a little bad about that in the morning, and I confessed my behavior to the man at Dona Nela’s. He thought it was quite funny. I got the sense that The Boy might have been one of the party at the karaoke place. He at least knew about it and had reported to the man that there were some drunk people out on the streets and that two women had gotten into a big fight. I don’t know if I saw the big fight exactly, but I had watched for a while as two drunk women pushed each other around and yelled at each other. Some men on motorbikes were lounging nearby watching them. I shone my flashlight on them to annoy them and perhaps drive them home, but it had no effect. I guess anyone who likes karaoke would like the spotlight even if it was just a Petzl flashlight.

I didn’t stay long at Mama Cita’s. I was exhausted from my abnormally busy day and sleepless night. The atmosphere at Mama Cita’s also was not one to keep you there. I sat at a table nearest a small table fan. The entire wall on my left was covered in a huge poster of two fluffy white kittens. It’s an odd thing to be sitting in a little town in the Philippines at a place called Mama Cita’s and being stared at by two 4-foot tall-kittens. I imagine someone thought they were cute, but I saw them more as fodder for a Stephen King novel. I could just imagine them coming to life and pouncing on me.

After I left Mama Cita’s, I went for a walk around the dark streets of Roxas. I needed water for the next day, assuming that I was going to leave. I had half a mind to stay. With going to Puerto, I hadn’t really had time to hang out there. And with my nice room at Rover’s, I could have enjoyed the day. I decided though that it was better to leave. With all the trips to banks and hospitals, I felt almost like I was still preparing for the trip. I thought that at some point the preparing would have to stop and the actual trip begin. Of course, I had already had lots of adventures and enjoyed myself very much in Sabang and Port Barton, but being so close to Puerto Princesa still, it felt like I was moving too slowly even for me.

I found a big shop on the main street that was still open. I got a big bottle of 4 liters of water as well as some 3 in 1 Nescafe packages. I wanted 2 in 1, but they didn’t have any. I thought about buying some snacks like cookies or buns, but I find that when I buy these things, I often end up not eating them. Once I start cycling, I tend to just keep cycling without stopping to eat. I was more concerned about water.

In the morning, I was on the road by 6:30. It felt very late to me. I had already missed a good hour of nice pre-dawn coolness, and I hoped that wouldn’t really cause trouble later on.

It was easy to leave Roxas. There is only the one National Highway (such as it is), and there are lots of convenient and clear road signs pointing the way. The road was paved with cement for much longer than I had expected and I had hopes that this wasn’t going to be such a difficult day. One very lucky thing for me is that the National Highway Such As It Is, is clearly marked with kilometer markers. They indicate on the top how far you’ve come from Puerto Princesa and on the bottom how far you still have to go to get to the next town. In this case Taytay was marked with a T and then the number 72 beneath it. I had 72 kilometers to go.

People might think that cycling is a physical challenge, but it is much more of a mental challenge. Getting comfortable with cycling is simply a matter of your mind and body getting used to the act of cycling. At first, you might think of the cycling as something that has to be gotten out of the way before you get to your destination. That type of thinking will make it very difficult. The frame of mind you should reach is one in which the cycling is the destination. If you are going to be riding a bike for four thousand kilometers or something like that, it is silly to treat the day’s cycling as something that has to be finished. Cycling is just what you’re doing. So mentally, you get into the state where eight hours on the bike is just normal. You simply enjoy where you are at any one particular moment.

The same goes for roads and weather. Non-cyclists often think that flat roads are much better. However, most cyclists know that no road is any better or worse than any other road. Roads are what they are. Personally, I actually like mountain roads. It gives a lot of variety to the day and provides lots of views of the countryside. As a cyclist, you don’t groan when you see a big hill ahead of you. It really doesn’t matter. You simply drop into a lower gear and keep pedaling. The only concern is that one might go a lot slower uphill, and so you have to think about whether you can get to this or that point before dark. The weather is the same. After a few days of cycling, you start to simply accept the weather. There is no point wishing it were cooler, or warmer, or shadier, or sunnier, or drier. There is also no point wishing for more wind, less wind, a tailwind, or any other type of wind. You simply enjoy the day for what it is and get into a rhythm of turning the pedals.

It isn’t all zen acceptance, though. In my case, I am far too aware that I am riding on a very poor bicycle. It isn’t a touring bike at all, and the results are a very painful butt, very sore arms and hands, and a sore neck and back. You’d think that your legs would dictate how far and how long one can cycle in a day. But it isn’t your legs at all. Legs are very strong and assuming you aren’t cycling like you are in a race, you can go for hours and hours and hours without a thought. It is the pain in your butt that is the deciding factor. At least that’s the case with me. Assuming I go on more cycling trips in the future, I have to get a true touring bike that is fitted to my body. The kind of pain I went through yesterday isn’t reasonable because it isn’t necessary. A good bike should reduce it by a large amount or even get rid of it altogether.

The kilometer-markers were convenient for me also because someone had stolen my Cateye cycle computer in Port Barton. Without it, I have no idea how far I’ve come or how far I have to go. You don’t absolutely have to know these things, but I find that it does help especially when you don’t have camping gear and you really have to get to a certain point before sunset. In this case, I reassured myself by timing myself between some of the markers. I noted the time when I passed one and then noted when I reached the next one. Most times, it took me about five minutes to cover a kilometer. That meant I was cycling at an average of 12 kilometers per hour, which meant that it would take me at least six hours of cycling to reach Taytay. That was good to know because it meant that by starting at 6:30, I would easily (if nothing went terribly wrong) get there before sunset. Then I didn’t have to worry about covering ground. I could relax and stop and take pictures or do whatever I wanted. Knowing that it would take at least six hours of cycling (and quite likely quite a bit more) also helped me relax. You might have this urge to ride hard to get it finished. But if you do the math and you know beyond a doubt that it’s going to be many hours before you get there, you simply let the thought go. I imagine it’s similar to the mindset that long-distance runners have. You’re in it for the long-haul, and the sooner your mind and body figure this out, the better.

With my late start, I was a little concerned about one thing: water. I had six liters with me, and by rights that should be enough to get me through the day. Carrying more than that means that you are carrying a lot of extra weight! However, the sky was looking pretty clear, and the sun was going to be beating down soon. I thought it would be better to have some insurance. At the very least, I could drink as much as I possibly could right away and then have that to get me started. I pulled in at the first spot that looked like it might have some water. It was only seven in the morning, but there was already a group of drunken men sitting out front the store. The good thing about drunken men is that they are generally friendly to dumb white guys on a bike. The bad thing is that they always want you to join them in their drinking. The drunkest of the bunch got up and kept trying to put a big mug of beer in my hand. I appreciated the thought, but beer was the last thing I needed at the start of this day. I tried to indicate that to this guy, but I think I hurt his feelings.

I was lucky in that this store did have some water and it was ice cold. They only had four half-liter bottles, but I bought them all and figured that eight liters should do it. If I needed more than that, I was sure I could get it along the way from a pump or well and purify it.

In the end, it was a difficult and long day for me especially considering that I was still not a cyclist. I was a desk jockey with a short holiday. I’d only ridden for three days and gone hiking for one day up until that point. That’s not enough to get into either the mental or the physical state of a cyclist. Plus, the bicycle was still giving me problems.

I had told myself to expect flat tires. Flat tires are another thing that can be handled in two ways. As a normal person, they can be a real annoyance. You’re trying to get to this place and you figure you’ll get there by two p.m. Then you get a flat tire, and it can be very annoying. You have to take all the bags off the bike, get out your tools, fix the flat, and then put it all back together again. By the end, you are hot and dirty and angry. Then you start cycling and you try to go faster to make up the lost time. That is absolutely the wrong way to go about it, and I know it. There is no point in getting upset about a flat tire. It’s just something that happens. It’s much better to expect them, and then simply go through the process of fixing them in a regular way. Don’t rush, and don’t let yourself get upset. It’s not hard to fix a flat. The only concern is time, and if you simply accept the time it takes to fix it, then it is no problem at all.

I was ready for flat tires, but I didn’t have any at all. What I did have was more trouble with my rear derailleur. I have to admit, that started to get on my nerves. I think it got on my nerves because it is my fault. I’m riding a bike that simply isn’t suited for touring. It is a city bike meant to be ridden to the park on Sunday afternoon. It has cheap components, and it is no surprise that they are falling part. More than that, I’m aware that I really don’t understand rear derailleurs. I knew what was going wrong – the chain wouldn’t flow through the two bottom rings and the whole unit would jam and get pulled up until it hit the frame. That was obvious. What wasn’t obvious was how to fix it. I didn’t have the slightest clue. All I could do was poke at the thing, clean it, and make the adjustments I knew how to make. But nothing I did solved the problem.

All was not lost, though, and after long bouts of trial and error, I figured out that the problem kicked in whenever I shifted regularly from the smallest to the middle ring on the front crank. If I kept the chain on the smallest ring all the time, the frequency of the jamming was reduced considerably. By keeping the chain on the smallest ring, I couldn’t go as fast on the flat somewhat smooth stretches, but that was a small sacrifice to make to stop the jamming. Besides, the flat stretches were few and far between. Later in the morning, they vanished completely and I never even wanted to shift into any higher gears. I had no use for them. However, by then, the derailleur had found a whole new bag of tricks – it simply started shifting gears all by itself. The chain just jumped around at random. This can be quite a shock and surprise when you’re riding hard uphill or navigating a really rough patch of rocks. Well, it can be a shock and a surprise at any time. Again, no matter what I did, I couldn’t fix the problem. I suspected it had something to do with my grip shift which was slowly coming apart on my handlebars. The two main parts were coming loose and drifting apart, and I had no idea how to fix it. I ended up limited to only the three lowest gears. I suppose it could have been worse. The lowest gears are the ones I absolutely had to have. Without them, I wouldn’t even have been a cyclist. I’d be a guy taking his bike out for a walk through the mountains. Not having any higher gears just meant I couldn’t really pedal whenever the road flattened out. I just had to coast and occasionally spin the pedals once to give me a bit more momentum. It slowed me down considerably, but I hadn’t been brought to a complete stop.

Both physically and mentally, I ran out of steam at about 50 kilometers. I’d done some extremely hard riding on very rough roads. Occasionally, there would be some cement pavement, but this was invariably on stretches leading to a bridge at the bottom of a valley and then going back up the other side. The grade on these stretches was much steeper than in other places and it took every ounce of my strength to pedal and get the bike to the top. I was going so slow that it was almost impossible to keep the bike steady and upright. This is also largely the fault of the style of the bike. A touring bike has a much longer wheel base which makes it much more stable. It also is designed so that you can get up out of the saddle and still pedal comfortably. These hybrid city bikes don’t let you get up. It’s hard to describe, but you simply can’t get up. If you try to, you end up way over the handlebars and you lose all control of the bike. You have no choice but to stay in the saddle and try to hunch over the handlebars. It’s ridiculous and it feels ridiculous and you get almost no extra leverage despite all your physical contortions.

On the absolute longest of these uphill stretches, I came across a bus that had broken down. It was on its way to El Nido, and it had clearly already been there a long time. The passengers had all gotten off the bus, and they were spread out in groups all over the place. I wobbled up to the bus on my bike and stopped for a chat. What I saw almost broke my heart. This wasn’t a flat tire, but a broken transmission or a broken rear axel assembly (I don’t know the real term). Whatever it was, there was a big piece of steel and gears lying on the ground with dozens of large wrenches and other tools. These people had obviously been there a long time already, and it looked like they weren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. I asked one of the men about fixing it, but he kicked a pile of broken steel on the ground and said they couldn’t fix it. Some important component had actually shattered. He said the driver had gone on to the next town or back to Puerto or somewhere to “get a new one.” My heart really went out to these people. It’s not like they were stuck at a roadside eatery. Nor were they waiting for the next bus to come along. No, they were stuck on a steep mountain road in an unbearably hot sun waiting for a spare transmission to be installed. They had no idea how long it would take or if it would ever get repaired. And judging by their clothing, they didn’t have the money to simply flag down the next shuttle van and get on their way. They had paid for their bus ticket, and it was on this bus. It’s not like the bus company was going to lay on another bus or send out a chopper to get them on their way. They had no choice but to find a patch of shade and just wait. I was relieved to see that despite this being a bus to El Nido, there were no tourists on board. Any tourist unlucky enough to be on that bus would have been quite unhappy. This is also Easter Weekend, and there are very few buses running. The man I spoke to said this was the only El Nido bus that day, and there would be none the next.

My next stop was at a kind of intersection. There were a group of untidy stores and a small set of benches under a roof where you could wait for a bus. I still had a hamburger left and as it was about noon, I thought I’d stop there and have lunch.

I rode my bike near the shelter, got out my burger lunch and sat down. A young boy was already in there. He had a bag with him and I assumed he was waiting for some kind of bus. Quite a few buses and jeepneys came by while I was there, but he didn’t even look up. Perhaps he had come on a bus and was waiting for family to come get him.

A group of men quickly gathered under the shelter to talk to me and ask me how much the bicycle was worth. I haven’t found a suitable lie yet. I hate telling people how much things actually cost because it sounds like an obscene amount here. I gave something of an honest answer in this case, and it sounded ridiculous because it was more than the motorcycles that they drove.

Only one of the men spoke English, and he translated for everyone else. He said that he could speak English because he used to work at the Coco Loco resort near Roxas. He was a bartender. He quit, he said, because the salary was too low. He only made 6,000 pesos a month. At first, that sounded like a lot to me, but then I did the math and realized that was about $150. You also have to consider the kind of hours he was putting in. I imagine he worked 6 or even 7 days a week and worked until quite late at night. He said he quit because the salary was too low, but then later I found out that he’d worked there for 12 years! So the salary must not have been completely out of the question.

I asked him what he did now and he said that he was just a rice farmer like all the men who were talking with me. I asked him if a rice farmer could make more money than that. He said no. Rice farmers can’t actually make that much money, but since they eat rice three times a day, it means that they don’t need as much money. They are growing rice to eat, and then they try and pick up odd jobs on the side when they need cash. My new friend also said that he had plans to start up some kind of business. He had become friends with an older Swiss man staying at Coco Loco, and this man had given him some money, and he was going to use it to start a business. He didn’t say how much it was or what he would do. I didn’t get the feeling that there was any great rush about it all.

There is certainly no great rush anywhere in these small towns on Palawan. I look around, and I can’t see any kind of economy at all. The men seem to specialize in simply hanging out. They have hanging out down to an art form. The key to this life seems to be that they simply don’t need much money to get by. They might have a hut of some kind, a couple of t-shirts, a pair of flip-flops, and no bills. So no one I see here has what we would think of as a job except for those working at these resorts as cooks or bartenders. I look at Taytay and imagine going out to look for a job. Well, it would be impossible. There just aren’t any jobs in a place like this that I can see. Perhaps if I dug deeper, I’d find that there are teachers at the school, nurses at a clinic, clerks at a government office, and they would all get some kind of salary, but there isn’t much more than that. You really can’t get much further away from the lives we lead in Taipei. I think the kind of work that goes on there would stun the average Filipino. How can you possibly just hang out on a boat for hours and hours every day when you have to do all that work? I think the cost of life in Taipei or anywhere in Canada would also shock them. You have to work like crazy just to keep up with the costs of standing still and breathing. Here, unless you want to do something special, life doesn’t cost anything. They eat the rice they grow and the fish they catch. Then somehow they cobble together some cash for clothes and a bottle of rum or beer.

Of course, that doesn’t explain the number of motorcycles that I see around. I ran into one girl way out in the countryside yesterday. She was driving a brand new beautiful red scooter and stopped to chat with me. I asked her about where she lived and she indicated a simple thatch-roofed hut behind her. How does a person living there get the money to buy the nice clothes she was wearing let alone a scooter like that? There is clearly a lot going on here other than what one sees on the surface.

There is certainly something appealing about the simplicity of life here. Well, maybe it’s not appealing per se, but the contrast with what I think of as normal life is quite astounding. I look around Taytay and I can’t see how it’s possible to do even one little thing that I might need to do in my normal life. Living here, everything would get stripped away until you were reduced to a much different sort of person. If the battery in my watch went dead, I couldn’t find a new battery. I couldn’t get new bulbs for any of my flashlights. I couldn’t get any parts for my bicycle. What I’m writing on my NEO would never get off it and onto the Internet or anywhere. The Internet? What’s that? Here, you’re quite lucky if you have electricity. The thought of having a computer with access to the Net is quite absurd. You might as well be talking about traveling the universe on the Starship Enterprise. It’s just fantasy. You meet someone in Taipei, and one of the first things you’ll ask them is what their job is. That job defines them. Here, not one of the hundred people that I can see around me would be able to say what their job is. The question doesn’t have any meaning. They are humans who need to eat and sleep today so they can eat and sleep tomorrow. There are men out there on their boats who have been doing nothing for all the time I’ve been writing. Other people have been wading through the shallow harbor water just scanning the water. Looking for fish? Crabs? I have no idea. Perhaps they will count themselves lucky if they find lunch and dinner out there. They might need money next week or next month, but right now they don’t need any. They just need lunch.

I try to imagine my whole trip in context and whether some of the people I meet could even grasp it. I’m talking about the overall cost of it from the flights to get here and back and everything else. I’m burning through money at a rate that would astonish them, and I’m doing it because I have a reasonable expectation that there will be more money later. It’s crazy how intense the life I’m leading even on holiday is compared to theirs. I have this mental image of a jet engine sucking back fuel at a hundred gallons a second and sending out a flame fifty feet behind it, while next to it there is local farmer sitting on this wooden sledge being pulled by a carabao. It doesn’t even have wheels, and to get to where he’s going he just has to give the carabao some water and then let him loose in a field with a nice mud hole. Our lives are the jet engines with fantastic demands for money and resources.

I also reflect on the reasonable expectations that people here have. Do they think about it? Do they think about the future? What do they imagine is possible?

 

Of course, when I was talking to the men under that shelter, I wasn’t really thinking about this so clearly. I was thinking mainly about the road and the 28 kilometers that remained to be covered. Here, I let my mental state slip a little bit. I knew I was more than halfway to Taytay and that it was only noon. I had this expectation that the hard part was over and that it was going to be fairly smooth from there. However, I had forgotten that I wasn’t really a cyclist yet. I wasn’t in shape and the conditions were pretty brutal. I had about 30 kilometers to go, and that is the entire distance I covered from Port Barton to Roxas! In effect, I still had that entire day of cycling to do. I also made the mistake of thinking that I knew the road and knew how it was going to be. Well, I didn’t.

I found after my forty-minute break under the shelter, my body had really let loose. Being back in the saddle was very hard. It hurt my butt terribly. My arms and neck were also very sore and I found that the hammering of the rocks was much harder on me now than it had been in the morning. I had a bit of an “uh-oh” feeling, and if I’d known what was coming I wouldn’t have thought “uh-oh” but “Oh my God!”

I covered eight kilometers on pretty rough but flattish road. It wasn’t easy and I was suffering, but I felt I was on the downhill section now. It was 20 kilometers to Taytay and I could start counting them down. It was then that the road decided to kick my butt.

I thought that as I got closer to Taytay, the way would become more populated and flatter and easier. In fact, the opposite was true. The last 20 kilometers made the first 52 seem like a walk in the park. The road went into some very steep and remote hills. The road got much rougher and the terrain much more difficult. I was at the limit of my strength and endurance, and that’s when the road decided to get tough. It never quite got to the Sabang level of difficulty – nothing ever could – but it came close at times. I really had to hunker down and just think about turning the pedals and grinding my way along. I even resorted to taking out my iPod shuffle and listening to music. I needed something to adjust my mental state so I could relax and become that cyclist I really wasn’t yet. The music didn’t last long though, because remote as this area was, there was still the occasional van or 4-wheel-drive and if I didn’t hear it coming, it could be very dangerous. They drove very fast and left very little room on the road. One or two startled me quite badly, and I decided it was safer not to listen to music. I also found that so many people called out hello or “Hey Joe!” that I had to keep replying. I felt it would be rude to not hear them and then not respond. People in general have been extremely friendly and reward my insane cycling with huge smiles. Belly laughs only really occurred on that Sabang road. Since then, I’ve caused a lot of amusement, but the smiles have more of warmth and pleasure than ridicule about them. I doubt very much I’m the first cyclist to ride on these roads. There are enough bike tourers in the world that someone has to have been here before on a bicycle. But certainly it isn’t every day that they see someone on a bike like mine with all its bags. The man who used to work at Coco Loco summed it up nicely for me. He asked me if I knew that it was Easter Weekend and if we had this holiday in Canada. He explained what Easter was about and how Jesus suffered on the cross. Then he said that perhaps that was why I was riding my bike on Easter, so that I could suffer like he did.

I really was at the end of my strength and every kilometer became something of a struggle. I couldn’t even think about the whole 20 kilometers as a unit. I thought about each individual kilometer as a separate unit. My stops became more and more frequent and I even got out my digital camera to take a couple of posed self-timer shots of me and of me and the bike. These were more excuses to stop riding than a desire for those pictures.

 

At long last, I came to the intersection with the short feeder road that went to Taytay on the coast. There was a traffic circle there and I rode around it a couple of times to savor the moment. Then I headed off down the road, every bump sending shots of agony into my backside, every rut nearly toppling me off the bike. I wanted to get off the bike and walk it at this point, but my cycling pride wouldn’t let me do that. Soon, though, my interest in my surroundings started to overcome the pain. More and more shops showed up, and I began to wonder where the hotels were and what the town would look like. Finally, I saw down a road to my left a view of the water and boats. This had to be Taytay at last.

I turned my bike down that road and in a hundred meters I was at the coast looking at the town. Taytay struck me as much smaller than I expected. The population is double that of Roxas, and yet it looked about the same size. The harbor was small and right there in front of me was the old Spanish fort that is the town’s tourism raison d’etre. I wish I knew more about the history to bring it to life for me. I know that the Spanish built it in 1667, so it is quite old. At that time, Taytay was the capital of Spanish Palawan. Whether fighting took place around the fort or anything like that, I have no idea. I guess I won’t know until later.

Considering its age, the fort is in very good shape. Its basic structure and walls all seem to still be there. It’s a smallish fort I suppose, though it certainly dominates this town from every angle. It’s by far the biggest thing in it.

I had been asking people about accommodation in Taytay. It sounded like my choices came down to Pem’s or Casa Rosa. Everyone said that Pem’s was the best place, and when I found that Pem’s was near the water and practically right beside the fort, I decided not to check out Casa Rosa. All I knew about Casa Rosa was that it was up on a hill, and by that point I didn’t want to climb up another hill. Besides, I didn’t want to be isolated from the town.

Almost right from the start, however, I got the feeling that I had once again not chosen wisely. Pem’s felt like one of those places that had lots and lots of employees without anyone actually doing anything. It was a careless and in my mental state an unfriendly sort of place. Worse, it felt disorganized. I had a very difficult time sorting out what my choices were. They had quite a range of cottages and it was difficult to grasp what they were showing me. I was under the impression that the cottages I saw were the only ones available. Then I pushed a bit, and found out that no, everything was available. They were just showing me one at random and leaving it at that.

When I first got into Taytay and found Pem’s, I rode slightly past it and right to the fort. I took a couple of pictures, and while I was there I saw a foreign man sitting on a balcony of one of Pem’s cottages. There were three right beside each other that had balconies facing the water and the fort. The setting wasn’t postcard scenic, but it was certainly interesting and I thought I’d see if I could get one of those cottages. I never did even see one, but not for want of trying. I ended up taking their one deluxe cottage. My skin was very thankful that I had spent a night in air-conditioned comfort in Roxas. It gave my skin a bit of a chance to breathe and some of the savage heat rash that had been driving me batty started to recede. I thought that after a day like that, it wouldn’t be out of line to live in luxury again. This deluxe cottage was very large inside and quite ornate on the outside. It had a big double bed, another bed on wheels that rolled underneath the other bed out of sight, a large but basic bathroom, a smattering of furniture, and an air-conditioner. It was the air conditioner I was interested in. The cottage went for 900 pesos, but I bargained them down to 800. I might have thought twice about paying that much, but the alternatives were very grim. They had a row of basic cottages for 350 pesos each. Inside, however, they looked like army barracks or prison cells. They would provide you with shelter from the sun and rain, but that is about it. Staying in them had no appeal at all especially when my pockets were bulging with pesos to be spent.

Up to this point, other than the unfriendly and disorganized reception, there was nothing really wrong with the place. My cottage was certainly fit for a king. It even had a nice balcony with a huge ornate bench carved out of a solid piece of wood. Still, the way things were put together wasn’t very appealing. All the cottages were lined up in rows and they faced each other so that as I sat on my bench I was staring directly at the balcony of the cottage opposite, where a couple and their child were hanging out. They had no choice but to stare directly back at me. The fort and the water was sort off to right, but you kind of had to sit sideways and force yourself to look at it. I saw so many better ways to design the place. Not much thought went into laying it out.

I had also been looking forward to a cold drink. It’s a funny thing, those cold drinks. When it comes to the liquid they contain, they are almost useless. Coke and Sprite bottles are designed to look good and give you the feeling that you are getting a lot. However, in terms of volume there is almost nothing there. If, as a cyclist, you were depending on them for your fluids, you’d be buying and drinking ten an hour all day long. Still, when they are ice cold, it’s a nice sensation when it slides down your throat. I saw a fridge full of Coke, Sprite, and bottled water near the front desk area, and I asked if they were cold. I was very disappointed to find that they weren’t cold. Not only weren’t they cold, I don’t think they were ever cold. I understood right away that they only had electricity here for part of each day, but it seemed to me that they could find a way to chill them at night and then keep them semi-chilled for their guests. I found out later that even the tiniest and dingiest of stalls in Taytay had coolers full of ice-cold drinks. If they could do it, why couldn’t Pem’s, a place that was supposed to care for guests? The answer – they just didn’t care.

The next disappointment was the restaurant. There were some tables and chairs there and I assumed that was the restaurant, but it was poorly laid out and very dark and gloomy. There was no indication that it was open or that they welcomed or wanted customers. A meal or a cup of coffee there looked like a somewhat sad experience, served reluctantly. I asked the ladies about the restaurant, but got very little information in return. I was starting to regret leaving Roxas. There I had the charming and comfortable Rover’s plus the interesting and friendly Mama Cita’s. I was all set to kick back and enjoy small town life. I’d gone on to Taytay partially because I thought Taytay would have a lot more to offer in the way of interest and atmosphere. So far things weren’t working out that way. Taytay even struck me as something of an unfriendly town. Two young toughs had jeered at me and made hissing noises near the waterfront. I was not in the best of moods and I turned my bike around and confronted them. I don’t think they were quite sure what was going on, but one look at my face told them that discretion was the better part of valor, and they took to their heels and ran for the beach where my bike couldn’t follow. They seemed quite cowed, which pleased me much. Pem’s only added to the unfriendly feeling I got from the town. I felt I hadn’t landed on my feet, and I missed Roxas.

After I showered, I left my room intending to have a meal at Pem’s restaurant. The same gaggle of loafers was hanging out near the front desk area and there was no activity near the restaurant, so I didn’t even stop. I walked out into the street and decided to take a turn around the town and see if I could find the Taytay equivalent of Mama Cita’s.

The first three or four blocks didn’t reveal anything of interest. There were many shops selling second-hand clothing and other things. I saw another pensionne of some kind, but it was several steps down from Pem’s and looked deserted. Taytay is small, and in a short time I had to turn to get back to the waterfront area and walk down the main street. There was nothing there either except your standard shops that you see in all these small towns. My one pleasant encounter took place at a tiny little stall. I had stopped there on my way into town to ask about Pem’s, and the women were friendly and a couple of people were drinking coffee. I stopped there again just to tell them that I had found Pem’s and I ended up staying for a cold Sprite. The woman popped open a fridge and took out an ice-cold drink. I saw that she had a system where she put water in plastic bags. These she froze in the freezer at night when they electricity. Then she sold the ice, and used it to keep the drinks cold during the day. Here was a woman who actually wanted customers.

I chatted with her and her customers a little bit and suddenly no one could talk about anything else but Casa Rosa. Casa Rosa was where I should stay. Casa Rosa was where you got beautiful views of the town and harbor. Casa Rosa was where you got delicious pizza. Casa Rosa this and Casa Rosa that. I don’t know where all this Casa Rosa talk was earlier when everyone was talking about Pem’s but it seemed that once more I had chosen the worst place to stay in town.

I still hadn’t seen anywhere to eat, and so I thought I might as well check out Casa Rosa. I had seen the entrance to it on my walk. It was actually just a short distance from Pem’s. Even if they didn’t have any food, I could at least check out Pem’s competition.

The walk up to Casa Rosa was not nearly as long as I had thought, and within a minute of arriving I realized that this was the place to stay. It was, in every sense of the word, a going concern. The restaurant was active and welcoming and from there you got an incredible view of the town, the fort, the harbor, the mountains, and even the ocean. I suppose it is saying too much to call it a paradise, but for my purposes it was about as close as one could get.

Despite being on antibiotics, I ordered and drank an ice-cold beer and watched the sunset. I hadn’t brought my cameras with me, but I didn’t worry about it. I knew there would be lots of time later to take some pictures. They had a set menu containing the standards like chicken adobo and chicken and fish curry, but they also made pizzas and other things. There was even a menu of the day with things like pork steak with mushrooms and French fries. That is what I ordered, and it was the best pork steak I had ever had. I simply couldn’t get over how wonderful the place was, and after dinner I asked them if they had any cottages available. With my usual luck, I assumed that anyplace this nice would have to be full and there would be all kinds of trouble getting a room or cottage. However, my luck seems to be pretty good at times, and they had plenty of cottages, including amazing number 4 which was right on the hillside and commanded a view of the fort and entire town. Inside, it was beautifully decorated with nice furniture and tables. There was even a mosquito net on the bed. It’s not too much to say that I was desperate to take possession of number 4. I made a reservation with them for the next morning. I found out that they opened for breakfast at 7 a.m., and I planned to roll my bike up here right then. I made them write down my name and I confirmed again that I wanted a cottage – this was no fly-by-night impulse, I told them. Still, I wasn’t entirely confident. This was a holiday weekend, and I imagined hordes of people showing up in the night and taking all the cottages. I almost decided to pack up right then and move. I would have to pay for the cottage at Pem’s and then again for this one, but it almost seemed worth it. I relaxed, though. The one girl I spoke with seemed competent and I didn’t sense any problems.

Just before I left, I got another pleasant surprise. I spotted the foreigner that I had seen on one of the balconies at Pem’s. We had spoken briefly then, but we had been too far apart to really hear each other, and I was too worn out from the road.

This foreigner was sitting at a bench on the hill just outside the restaurant, and I went over to talk to him. He was a very pleasant man named Ed. He kept referring to “we” in his conversation, so I assumed there were more people around connected to Ed. I didn’t know who they were until I noticed that there was a stroller beside the bench with a tiny baby inside. His wife, Mirabelle, showed up. She was a Filipina and equally friendly, though she let Ed do all the chatting with the foreigner. Their drinks had just arrived and I didn’t want to disturb them too long, so I we chatted only briefly. I was particularly interested to know how long they were going to stay in Taytay, hoping for a chance to have a chat. It turns out that they were in Taytay for as long as a week. I got none of the details, but they were negotiating a land purchase in El Nido. They were waiting on some reports from some engineers, and instead of waiting in Puerto Princesa, decided to come up here and wait in Taytay. This was all very interesting and I hoped to learn more about them later. Ed also seemed pleased to chat with a foreigner. He had said something earlier about how a bicycle was the best way to travel, so perhaps he has done it himself in the past. We’ll see.

When I left Casa Rosa, it was about 7:30 and I was practically asleep on my feet. I stumbled back to Pem’s, turned on the air conditioner, set up my mosquito net, took a shower and then fell into bed. I slept somewhat fitfully – not nearly as well as I had slept in Sabang and Port Barton for some reason – but I slept for a long time. I opened my eyes at 10:30 p.m., then again around 3:30 a.m., and one more time at 5:30. My eyes were practically glued shut with all the gunk that had been cleaned away during the night. The roads had been very dusty, and by the end of the day I could barely see out of my right eye. That’s the eye I use to focus my camera, and I just had to hope that I had the camera in focus. The world was just a big blur. Ten hours of sleep had dealt with that though, and now I just had to shovel away the mounds of dirt that had collected in the corners of my eyes and all the way around the edges. There was so much of it that when I opened my eyes, this gooey stuff actually stretched over my eyes from my eyelids down to the bottom. I had to sort of peel it all away before I could see properly. But once this gunk was gone, I was glad to see that I had my eyes back. I noticed that they were unnaturally bright and blue when I saw them later in my cottage at Casa Rosa. That must mean I’m glowing with health from all this exercise. I can only hope so.

I was surprised, though, how tired I still felt. My limbs felt heavy and I didn’t want to move. My mind also felt sluggish, and though I had been looking forward to a cup of coffee at Casa Rosa, I didn’t think I had the energy to really appreciate it. I wondered if the antibiotics were responsible for this fatigue, or was it just the aftermath of my epic 72-kilometer rocky ride.

Packing was once again a somewhat unpleasant experience thanks to my Ortlieb pannier bags. Each night, every bag gets completely emptied. To find anything, I have no choice but to dump out everything and spread it out around the room. Then in the morning, it’s the reverse process but harder since the packing never made any sense, and I’m stuck with just dumping things into the bags at random again. Nothing ever has a permanent home. I got it done, however, and then carried my bike outside and attached all the pannier bags. I rolled the bike to the front and told them that I was checking out. They were surprised, and I didn’t tell them that I was moving to Casa Rosa. They’ll likely figure it out before long. Checking out was as confusing and irregular as checking in had been. You’d think it was something they did several times a day, but it looked like the first time they’d ever done it. They had to open all these drawers rummage through mounds of junk to find this or that book and then this or that pen. Even getting that warm Sprite the other day was a big challenge as no one knew where the bottle opener was. That Sprite wasn’t on my bill, and I reminded them about that before I paid it. Then I carried my loaded bike up the four steps onto the street and rode it over to the entrance to Casa Rosa.

It is a bit of a steep climb up to Casa Rosa, but it was easily accomplished, and I was glad to see that the woman here was expecting me. The cottage I had seen the day before was still available and I was given the key. I felt a bubbling happiness in my chest as I looked out over the town and harbor and contemplated two days of just hanging out here enjoying the setting. My cottage struck me as every bit as pleasant as it did when I first saw it. They had cottages for 1,200 and cottages for 900. Mine, number four, was one of the 900 cottages. I assumed the difference in price was the presence or absence of an air conditioner. I was more than willing to sacrifice the air conditioner for the view. I also thought it would be very breezy up on the hill and a fan would be more than enough.

Since then, about six hours ago, I have done nothing but sit in the restaurant writing, reading, and admiring the views. I had an American breakfast with an actual brewed cup of coffee. Then I had three more cups of coffee, including two made with my 3 in 1 packages. Then it was lunchtime, and I ordered one of their pizzas and a beer. The beer was as cold and delicious as ever, and the pizza was welcome, though not that great. I got the feeling the sauce was closer to ketchup than tomato sauce. It became a bit overpowering in flavor after my third or fourth slice. Still, I shouldn’t complain. In terms of my interests and personality, you couldn’t make anything better than this. It strikes me as a privilege to be able to sit here and have this view and this comfort.

 

Tags: bike, Casa Rosa, Dona Nela, Mama Cita, Palawan Bike Trip