April 6, Sunday

I’m back in Puerto Princesa and my flight leaves in three and a half hours. I haven’t written much the final few days mainly because there is no memory left in the NEO. I’ve been reduced to pen and paper. Plus, I’ve cycled for day days and there hasn’t been time in the morning.

My days on Coco Loco were wonderful and just what I needed. It started to rain a bit towards the end, but I didn’t mind that. It added variety to the days. And I was lucky with books. I also found a copy of “The Road.” I’d read it before, but it read just as well the second time.

The boat left the island at 8:00 in the morning and it was easy to get up early enough, have breakfast, pay my bill, and do the final bit of packing. My bill for four days came to nearly 8,000 pesos, which is about $200 US. That’s a lot for me, but cheap by “resort” standards, and it was worth it to me.

Robert was also on the boat. He was going to the baptism in Roxas of the baby of one of the staff. Robert came to Coco Loco every year and felt like one of the family. A bunch of other foreigners were on the boat as well, including a French couple – he in multi-colored dreadlocks. I was amused to see that these two had massive brand new backpacks. No little cloth bag from India for them.

My bicycle was sitting in the Coco Loco office, and in a short time, I loaded up the bags, bought some water, and was cycling out of town.

The cycling was a bit odd. My derailleur was still not cooperating and I could only use some of the lowest gears. But now I was on smooth pavement and could go a lot faster. Unfortunately, my highest available gear only allowed me 18 km/hr. I had to pedal like a crazy man, then coast until my speed dropped below 18, then pedal again. It was very silly especially when you do that for hour after hour.

It threatened to rain, and then it did rain. It rained hard and I became soaked through. There was no point in seeking shelter. I was already soaked with sweat and it was hot, so the rain wasn’t uncomfortable.

I was glad at one point to run into Ed. He and his wife and son drove up beside me in their red jeep. He stopped and we chatted for a while and compared notes on the last few days.

I spent the night in San Rafael at Duchess Beach. They had cottages right on the water. The place was okay, but it was a huge letdown after Coco Loco. I was glad to be cycling, but I reflected that it would have been nice to have another day on Coco Loco and have taken a bus to Puerto. I got a lot out of cycling, but I can see how going by bus, van, and jeepney would have afforded me many more days of a more traditional pleasure – that of hanging out on beautiful beaches.

At Duchess Beach, I was adopted by a large and unusual group. Duchess Beach had about 15 cottages and an eating area and offices. In the restaurant area, I saw a group of Filipinos and foreigners. The Filipino man saw me and invited me to join them for drinks, dinner, and even a day of island-hopping the next day.

I was hesitant as I was looking forward to just reading my book, but I sat down with them. There was, in addition to the Filipino man, a 35-year-old Iranian named Carl, a very pretty Filipina, a young guy from Sweden, a young woman from Sweden, and a young woman from Australia.

Despite spending the whole evening with them, I found out nothing about them. I talked to Carl first, and he was so evasive that I felt uncomfortable asking anyone else. They were all living in Manila and were part of the same organization. They’d met the Filipino man somewhere and he had organized this weekend on Palawan. They had flown into Puerto that morning and were flying back on Monday.

The mystery surrounded their organization. I assumed it was an NGO volunteer sort of thing, but Carl would say neither yes or no to that assumption. He talked vaguely of young people who liked to go to dance clubs. He even said that the organization had no name. I know it’s crazy, but I got the impression that they were some kind of international swingers organization.

The evening was also odd mainly because of my status as a guest of the Filipino man. In my experience “guest” is not that unrelated to “prisoner.” He’d offered me hospitality in the form of food and drinks. I accepted, and suddenly I could no longer get my own food and drinks. I was dependent on him, and he wasn’t very informative. There was also no restaurant at Duchess Beach. My plan had been to settle in and then ride my bike to town to find something to eat. Now I couldn’t really do that as I waited to see what “drinks and dinner” meant. Drinks, I found out, consisted of Johnny Walker Black over ice. I had to accept the ice and the next day I was sick for the first time on the trip. They had a cooler and when it was opened I saw it was full of Coke and beer. I had a cycling thirst and hesitantly asked if I could have a beer. It turned out that I couldn’t because the beer was reserved for one of the women. Now was the time to just leave and go buy some water and beer on my own, but I felt that would insult their hospitality.

I was also extremely hungry, but I couldn’t go off in search of food because I was now a guest for dinner. Eventually, an entire roasted chicken arrived. What was this? I wondered. The gang started cutting up the chicken and handing out bits and eating it. I ate a leg, though I didn’t know if I should. Was there enough for everyone? Yet, I needed food after cycling all day. Then a second chicken showed up. I made noises about declining. I didn’t want to eat their chickens and leave them hungry. Still, I was starving and I took a big leg and breast. I hunched over it like a dog guarding a bone. I got the impression that the foreigners were also hospitality prisoners. They seemed as confused as I was. The Filipino man was in charge of everything and was playing the grand host (while getting every drunk), but he wasn’t saying much.

I was still very hungry, but I resigned myself to being hungry and felt I could make it through a hungry night. I’d a lot in Puerto the next day.

After we ate the chickens, we went for a walk along the beach. I learned that the Swedish guy and the pretty Filipina were a couple. The other seemed separate. Yet, I caught Carl putting his on the Swedish girl’s butt and cupping it. They showed no signs of being a couple, though. Was this the “Swingers” style coming out? There was also almost no concern for their belongings or who shared a cottage with whom. It was all very curious.

After the walk, we sat around for a while. I was just planning my escape when I noticed a table being laid for a lot of people. Was this dinner? Was it for us? I didn’t know and apparently neither did the rest of the swingers. I think they thought the chickens were dinner as well. However, the table was being laid for us, and there was a big dinner of rice and fish and chicken and squid and kebabs. By then, though, I was tired and tired of being a hospitality prisoner. I ate some rice and squid and wanted the whole dinner to be over so I could go read my book and perhaps go off in search of a cold beer on my own.

The confusion continued as the Swedish guy started feeding some local dogs. The Filipino guy asked him not to do that because the driver of their van and some cooks and other people hadn’t eaten yet. Everyone looked guilty at that and stopped eating because we had to leave food for other people. It’s very hard work being a guest.

Finally, I made my escape and went to cottage #5. It wasn’t a very comfortable place. The furniture on the front porch was hard and uncomfortable. The beds were small with thin mattresses on wooden slats. The bathroom smelled and was full of bugs and spiders. I didn’t sleep well and was glad to pack up and hit the road the next morning.

I could feel my luck turning against me as I got closer to Puerto and my return to Taipei. It rained hard and long for most of the day and the cycling was hard. The traffic got heavier and heavier as I approached Puerto until it was overwhelming. I found the noise and the crowding unbearable. In Puerto, I went to the Fresh Café again. I had been looking forward to eating there for days. However, the waiter ignored me for so long that I got annoyed and just walked out. I saw a travel agency that offered International Flight Confirmations. I went in to confirm my flight and they told me that they didn’t do such things.

I decided to just go to the hotel and the only room they had was right beside the construction of a new room – hammering and sawing went on all day. To top it off, there was barely a trickle of water in the bathroom. Pretty bad for $25 a night. I learned that that you had to go to a Philippines Airlines office at the airport to confirm a flight. I went there on my bike to find out that they were closed for lunch. I always go places when they are closed.

For lunch, I had pizza at Shakey’s and when I returned to the PA office, they were open and I confirmed my flight. I don’t know if I had to do it, but the man typed for a long time and then printed out new papers which he said replaced my current papers. This begs the question of what would have happened if I hadn’t confirmed. Did confirming make any difference? It’s impossible to know.

Packing up the bike went fairly smoothly. It certainly was easier than in Taipei. It took a long time of course. I got a thermos of hot water for coffee and got some cold beer. It was a painless thing except for trips to the bathroom thanks to the grand host and his ice. It was my last night on Palawan, but I felt no urge to go out. Puerto struck me as a horrible place after the peace and beauty of Coco Loco. I slept very well having splurged on an air-con room, and I was up early packed and ready to go in little time.

The people at the Palawan Village Hotel remembered me very well when I returned. They said I’d lost a lot of weight and looked healthy and handsome. They found it hard to believe that I really had ridden my bike to El Nido and back. One fellow stopped me for one last Palawan conversation – the same one I’d had a hundred thousand times – the interrogation – What is your name? Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married? Why not? Don’t you like Filipinas? Would you like massage?

The hotel was close to the airport, but with the bike, I really couldn’t walk there. The scene was the airport was a very unpleasant surprise. I was more than 2 hours early for a 1-hour domestic flight, yet the small airport was jammed with people and outrageous piles of luggage. It was so hot and crowded that I was drenched in sweat in seconds. Sweat poured down my face and my clothes were soon soaked. There was also the usual chaos and confusion. There appeared to be 2 flight 196s – one at 10:30 and one at 11:35. I was worried that I’d get bumped to the 11:35 and miss my connection to Taipei. Was I even in the right line? It was impossible to know.

The crowds of Filipinos behaved differently from how westerners would. They appeared to have all kinds of travel concerns, which made me nervous. They seemed to be doing things in a complex way, which made me feel like I was missing something. My line didn’t even move for a long time as every man seemed to be doing business deals, not just checking in. Others were checking in for 20 people. Only suckers like me did things themselves.

The luggage made me feel that my huge bicycle box was a reasonable thing. There was some wooden thing about 12 feet long. There were huge sacks and bundles that were so dirty and poorly wrapped I was amazed they’d be allowed on a brand new Airbus. One fellow explained that he had cages and cages of live rats. I refused to believe it, but I saw the bars of the cages myself, and the big bundles moved and rocked on their own as whatever was inside them ran around.

By the time I got to the front of the line, I was frazzled and stressed and soaked to the skin. My baggage was accepted, but it was 10 kg over the limit and they charged me 2,500 pesos – far more than they charged in Taipei. Same airline, same distance, same luggage, yet a wildly higher charge. Why? It was impossible to know. In air travel, all is a mystery. Perhaps they confuse us on purpose. Then we don’t sweat the details and simply are grateful if we just get to our destination at all.

I met an interesting young woman in the airport. She was from Argentina, and was working at a nickel mine in the south of Palawan. She worked for six weeks and then had two weeks off. She ends up flying a lot and has gotten blasé and even tired of it. She was on her way to Copenhagen to see her boyfriend. She said there were 400 people working at this mine, and she was only foreign female.

The departure lounge was jammed with hundreds of people and was incredibly hot. My t-shirt got wetter and wetter with sweat. The high point was a glass of iced coffee that, however, led to the low point – a trip to the airport bathroom. Yikes.

The jet was completely full – overbooked I think – and there was a lot of confusion about boarding passes. My luck continued against me and the passenger beside me was a quite fat woman who bulged out of her seat and into mine. A boy opposite was mentally challenged and he shouted and yelled and opened and closed his window shutter like a crazed thing. At least I got a hot cup of coffee and the plane landed in Manila safely. The flight was only one hour and we seemed to get to Manila instantly. It felt much longer going to Palawan. The plane landed at 12:05 and my flight to Taipei was scheduled to board at 1:15. I was concerned about me and my luggage making the connection. It appeared to be some kind of holiday in the Philippines and armies were on the move. I had arrived on a domestic flight and despite being checked in for my next flight already, I still had to physically exit the airport, which mean waiting in a long line as security personnel checked baggage claim stubs against claimed bags. Outside the airport were hundreds of people sitting around with suitcases. I couldn’t imagine why they were there and their presence made me nervous. They weren’t in line to get in. They were just sitting there. The line to get into the airport was phenomenally long. I’d never seen such a mob just to get into the building. The problem was the sheer number of people overwhelming the place, but also the amount of luggage they had combined with the strong security measures, as everything had to be x-rayed and everyone searched and their papers checked. The inside of the airport was a madhouse with barely enough room to move. I wasn’t totally sure I didn’t have to check in, but I was somewhat sure. Besides, the lines were s long that I didn’t have a prayer of getting through one and making the flight. I went instead directly to the airport tax counter. They’d already lifted 40 pesos from me at the Puerto airport. In Manila, they wanted 750! My huge amount of excess cash was dwindling fast and quickly becoming essential cash. The line here was also quite long, but at least it moved fast. They are very fast and careless when it comes to taking your money.

I was not so lucky at the immigration area. It was a small area considering this was an international airport. There were dozens and dozens of people ahead of me and I watched the minutes tick by. It wasn’t nearly as hot as on Palawan, but I was still sweating and the heat sweat mixed with stress sweat. Stress sweat is quite different and quickly turns to a foul bodily odor that I could feel wafting around me like an offensive personal bubble. I felt sorry for those who had to stand next to me or even near me. And for some reason, you had to fill out an immigration card. I did this while standing in line just as everyone else did. If they ended up with illegible scrawls from everyone, it’s their own fault for having such a poor system. Everyone kept dropping passports, boarding passes, and tax receipts as they juggled everything. After all that, the immigration guy didn’t even glace at mine but just threw it into a pile to his side.

After immigration came another full-on security check. This time people had to remove their shoes and belt. Lots of men were walking around with their pants threatening to fall off. This line was also long and while I waited, the check-in time for my flight came and went. I could only hope I was in the right airport and that I hadn’t missed a step. If I had to go back, I would miss the flight for sure. The one saving race – admittedly a huge one – was that I didn’t have to worry about my luggage. In theory, it had been checked all the way through to Taipei.

I felt bad for the security guy as he had to enter my personal balloon of foul smells and pat me down. He even checked my armpits and I could only hope for his sake that he had a break when he could wash his hands. I wasn’t surprised when my carry-on bag was flagged for an additional security check. On my way to the Philippines, my binoculars were an item of interest to the security guys. I thought perhaps they were concerned about them again. The problem this time though, was a roll of packing tape. I’d thrown it into my bag simply because I had it, but also because I thought I might have to retape my bicycle box. The security guy quickly found it and confiscated it. A roll of tape is hardly a weapon, yet I can understand the security concern. You could use it to tie people up pretty easily.

 

Tags: bike, Coco Loco, Palawan Bike Trip, Taipei