 |
| The view from the patio of MWR Resto |
The fun began at around 9:30pm when I transferred from the local Taiwan Railroad to the HSR north to Taoyuan station. The 500NT combo, utilizing the new airport metro, late at night, meant minimal obstruction from traffic. I had checked-in on-line and bought all tickets in advance, a 5,500NT 12:20am round-trip red-eye to Mactan-Cebu, arrival at 3:50 a.m. I was on my way to a mystery tour of Oslob. “Come to Cebu. I’ll be your tour guide,” said Malcolm tantalizingly. I did need a vacation. This would be the perfect excuse to go.
 |
| The convenient new Taoyuan train to the plane |
I had done minimal research beforehand; all I was told, by my Taiwan-New York homie, was there would be whale-watching and swimming that I so desired. The weekly swimming I do in the pool in Taichung prepared me for the day in Oslob and Sumilon Island when I put on my swim shorts three times; to swim with whale sharks, around a sand bank, and under a waterfall. The first day there I ventured out with water shoes in the waters off the stony shore near the resort.
 |
| Open for business |
It is a no-brainer for Malcolm to be in Oslob, though he is up on a mountain, not in the sea. He hit it off there with the luck of staying in the right resort and making proper connections and venture partners for his paragliding operation. I wonder why it took him so long (13 years!) to leave Taiwan and investigate another country; Taiwan’s bureaucracy had derailed him six times, but at least he had gotten the plot for an important manual on obstructionism, The Jade Menagerie. So long as he keeps his nose clean with the local Filipinas and rubs no Roman Catholic fanatics the wrong way, he will have a good future there.
I had foolishly left Taiwan without the address or hotel name clear in my mind; it didn’t seem it would be too hard to find at the time. It was somewhere in a text message from Mary, the hotel manager, or from Malcolm. There would be a car sent to pick me up, anyway. All I had to do was look for my name scribbled on a piece of paper held up by a driver, but the driver wasn’t there; the plane was forty-five minutes late and, I later learned, there was nowhere for him to park, get out, and look for me; I missed him. A dispatcher saw me looking lost.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know; all I was given were these travel directions,” I showed him the text message.
He led me to a yellow cab, spoke to the driver, and wrote #69 on a slip of paper. I got in the back seat and showed the driver my smart phone directions.“That’s in Oslob,” Benjor said excitedly. “I can drive you there.”
 |
| One of the ruins in the rain on the road from Cebu |
With a crucifix so heavy round the neck, Benjor at the airport joined me on my mission: to find the place I was going. I had sent Malcolm and Mary text messages through free airport Wi-Fi but no one was answering at 5 am.
“Let’s just go; I’ll contact them after eight.” The driver knew that it was wise to get out of Cebu city before the traffic congested the streets, but the rain and a jogging marathon put a monkey wrench into our plans; a freakin’ marathon! We inched with pre-dawn traffic over a potholed boulevard, one side taken over by ballerinas and Darth Vader’s handing out cups of water to joggers. It took hours to get out, but we passed over a bridge to another island, the road narrowed to two lanes, and the jockeying for position began with weaving over the double line to pass slower trucks, bikes, cars and trikes (a motorcycle attached to a one-wheel sidecar) the taxi made some distance at sixty miles an hour past ramshackle storefronts and missionary churches using two distinct horns, one more urgent than the other.
 |
| Hey Benjor; where's the action at? |
“Are you hungry?” Benjor asked. “We can stop to eat and you can go.” The Sim card dealer at the airport couldn’t install my local usage; I was limited to Wi-Fi hot spots. Jollibee or 7-11 would be the place to hook up. Unfortunately, outside the city limits, it wasn’t the case. We stopped at one and reviewed the situation over a sickly sweet fruit-like drink and the driest artificially colored 7-11 sandwich in the world.
“What is your friend’s name? I can contact him on my phone,” said the driver. Good idea, right? But Malcolm has his name in Chinese on Facebook and the driver’s phone wasn’t equipped.
“I have the hotel manager’s name,” I said hopefully, and he copied it down to find and friend her on Facebook. Thank goodness, she accepted his invite; I typed an SOS message: “Mary; it’s David. What is the name and address of your hotel?”
It took a few minutes but a response came. “MWR.”
“David? Where are you?” I asked Benjor.
“An hour away!” he said. She texted the address, the driver gave me a high five, entered it into his GPS, and we hit the road at Godspeed. Jesus, could that guy drive! One horn for the motor vehicles; the other for the trikes.
On the way, we chatted about politics, and religion. The conversation was getting boring for the details and I was glad to hear the GPS lady interrupt and say our destination was a few left turns away. I paid him $50 in U.S. currency I had brought thrilled to see a friendly face peering at me through the rainy windshield. It was Mary. Despite all the obstacles, we had gotten to the destination, eighty miles away from the airport, in under five hours.
 |
| The patio with Malcolm's room and my cabana |
“You’re lucky,” Mary said. “Yesterday, one guest said it took him eight hours to arrive.” I bid the driver farewell, he gave me his card with a wink, and my vacation began.
Malcolm had sauntered out from his room to see me sitting in the casino chatting with Mary. It wasn’t that unusual seeing each other in this environment not too different from rural Taiwan, with some exceptions. For one, his paragliding operation was catching thermals here and a Norwegian patron was waiting for him to go check out a few landing sites; he would be back later to hang with me, so to speak. That was fine since I hadn’t slept all night, even too tired to be frazzled by the crazed drive. I was shown to my small cabana within earshot of the crashing ocean waves and fell out exhausted. At 1500 pesos a night ($30-900NT) two nights was as expensive as a one-way drive from the airport!
The waves crashing outside my window woke and beckoned me. Swim trunks came out of my backpack and onto my body before I took a shower, put my tan Converse back on to ask Mary where to swim. There were two sandy beaches five minutes away, she said, but directed me to the steps at the end of the cabana, if I didn’t mind the rocks. So I walked to the shore, removed my socks and Cons, and braved out into the gentle waves over the jagged rocks feeling like I’d fall at every step, but I was determined. Not ten minutes and still not deep enough to get my trunks wet, Mary was calling from the shore.
Poem: stepping on stones in archipelago
Poem: stepping on stones in archipelago
“Put on these water shoes; it’s dangerous for you to step on a sea urchin.” So I gingerly returned, pulled them on, and went further down the beach in Mary's trike. I went back out, this time where the water was deep enough to swim between two kayaks that were moored there. How refreshing!
Returning to my cabana, I took that shower letting the water fall through the day-lit drain in the floor. Outside I could hear Malcolm.
 |
| Malcolm in the middle |
 |
| A goat cage good for a rest in the rain |
“Want to go up the mountain?” A four by four pick-up was on the shoreline road with the Norwegian paraglider, Malcolm’s venture partner and his family, along with two duffle bags stuffed with paraglider wings. Up we went to the take off point that had carefully been chosen for the activity; off the side on the clear 45o slope with a half dozen clearings for a landing. Malcolm watched as the wind socks lifted and drooped with the gusts waiting for the optimal condition. The mountain side, littered with volcanic rock was perfect, he said, but the wind was erratic, the thermals not consistent, and the wind rushing down the valley to our side threatening. “I have flown in conditions like these,” he said explaining, “but I wouldn’t push this on a paying customer. Let’s wait. It rained in the morning the ground was wet so there's no thermal to ride up, and cross winds. Yes, coming up from the valley; not good.” The wind socks rose and fell irregularly.
 |
| The landing points of the paragliding operation |
I was not the customer he had in mind; my place was in the water, not in the sky. There would be no take-offs that day for anyone; maybe the next. We milled around the volcanic cinders sitting in the goat cages; admired a rainbow. After an hour waiting for conditions to change, we returned to the resort.
 |
| Me at the take off point |
Manol was there when we returned. The sea captain father, founder of the resort, was introduced to me by his daughter Mary. “Would you like Manol to take you around tomorrow to see the whale sharks?”
“Whale sharks?!?” I asked. My ignorant lack of planning was evident. “You bet I would!”
“Can you swim; you might like to snorkel near the whale sharks,” added Manol. So that’s why young adventurers braved a depressing six hour ride from Cebu airport to reach this spot. And here I was being offered a personal tour by the man instrumental in founding the attractions that drew world travelers to his hometown. “Be ready at 6 am and I will drive you there.” Okay!
 |
| A nice restaurant of local dishes in the village |
Night life in Oslob consisted of a 7-11, at which Europeans who’d come to see the whale sharks socialized and got drunk. On the way there, we ran into Doctor John, a young local clinic doctor who, he said, had just delivered a baby. He joined us for dinner at the open air restaurant, one with local cuisine near two or three that smacked of Western enviance. We chose one that other Caucasians had found and passed the evening chatting.
I was curious to know why Filipinos were so Roman Catholic after being massacred and oppressed by European imperialists for hundreds of years since Magellan first debarked. Filipinos are very adaptive and accepting, Doctor John said. I was delighted he was open-minded and impressive to chat with.
I was curious to know why Filipinos were so Roman Catholic after being massacred and oppressed by European imperialists for hundreds of years since Magellan first debarked. Filipinos are very adaptive and accepting, Doctor John said. I was delighted he was open-minded and impressive to chat with.
 |
| Doctor John |
Walking slowly off the main drag, we had a coffee and brownie in a shop built by a local entrepreneur and called it a day. I needed a good night sleep for the coming events.
With my last San Miguel we sat on the cement patio chair looking up at the stars after Malcolm turned off the deck lights.
“See you at breakfast; 5:30.”
The next morning I was up early. When I was almost finished breakfast in the casino, Manol appeared. “Ready to go?” he asked. I nodded my head and handed him two fifty dollar bills. “This should cover the cost of everything, rooms and all,” He winked and left to get his four by four. Malcolm arrived just as I was going to leave.
Manol drove me fifteen minutes down the two-lane to a gaggle of non-Filipinos milling around a muddy parking lot. He knew the parking attendants that guided his over-sized vehicle into a tiny space. We crossed the road to join the chaotic scene of people in different stages of getting set to join the whale sharks. Manol stood on line for me and paid my fee calling me over to sign my name. I had worn my trunks under my shorts and found a niche to remove them, sneakers, t-shirt and put my cell-phone in a zip-lock baggie that Manol kept. I was brought to a table where I was given a snorkel, mask, special camera, and directed to hand it to his cousin who would take underwater photos of me near the kayak. I was even assigned a private kayak at first until asked to join a group of Taiwanese youngsters nearby, if I wouldn’t mind.
At every step, there was a guide asking me if I knew how to swim. I didn’t look like I could. How could they have known that this 110kg 63 year-old has been swimming forty laps a week in his local pool, riding 50km a week weekly on his bicycle? I appreciated the concern but was ready to go; I could remove my life vest once we reached the viewing area if I wished.
After a half hour, our time was up; back into the kayak those who chose to snorkel. We were rowed back to shore me having a nice chat with other young guides who knew Manol well. Finally, I found Manol among the chaos and he led me over to the camera table to transfer the photos onto my cell phone.
“This is a nice lady who knows how to open and close everything,” he said with a laugh. The pretty young woman placed a chip in my phone.
Somehow, Manol managed to maneuver the four by four out of the tiny cramped parking lot with the help of the attendants and we got back on the two-lane heading further south.
 |
| Manol taking a break |
Bluewater resort is franchised on Sumilon Island. I was bought a ticket for the 9:30am boat and we waited on the outdoor patio and I tried to nap as obnoxious tourists began gathering around me. We found seats on the boat at the end of a long narrow pier and rode the waves for the fifteen minute ride. Manol would meet me when I returned on the 3:30pm cruise.
kind of place, good for families or couples, but not designed for a single man like me. More than once I was asked by employees if I was alone. I told them my wife was afraid of water and hadn’t joined me on the trip. I found my way to the swimming spots but first I would take the hike around the island, ninety minutes total. No one was on the path of volcanic black cinders perhaps five stories at the highest point. With the rain off and on, I took shelter on the stoop of a workman’s cottage and then went on my way. The sky had cleared enough when I reached the sandbar but I planned to go swimming in any event so long as there was no lightening; one can’t get wet when one is swimming. The water was delightful and the guests were few as I swam around the sandbar and lay on the beach. Back to the village I went to get my complementary free drink and buffet lunch. I was surprised when a waiter at the beachside tent called me by name. “I knew it was you because you are the last guest to eat.” The morning had passed so swiftly I didn’t realize it was 1:30pm. I spent the next hour sitting under a tiki umbrella near some noisy families and waited for the 3:30 trip back to Cebu Island.
 |
| Bluewater Lagoon |
 |
| The Lighthouse |
 |
| The Sandbar on Sumilon Island |
Manol had another treat for me when we met up at the Bluewater office; there was a waterfall he wanted me to see heading back to his resort; Tumalog.
Up a mountain road we drove a few minutes to a drop off point where young men with motorcycles awaited someone like me who, for a fee, didn’t want to walk the steep path down to the bottom of the falls. Once I approached the falls and saw the pool under it I realized I should have worn the trunks that I had removed for a second time after the sandbar. The young man rode back up the hill and asked Manol for my shorts and returned. To the raw unlit wood locker I changed and up to and into the Tumalog; cool, bright, and clean falling from ten stories up the mountain cliff.
 |
| Tumalog Waterfalls |
A six foot iguana skirted by in the dusk on my return to the locker. It was approaching 5:30pm. I was having so much fun; the most fun you can have without a BJ or weed. I had to consider Manol’s offer to drive me back to the airport the next day; I had already texted to ask the driver who picked me up, but he I couldn’t see his response without Wi-Fi.
 |
| Best beer in the archipelago |
Back at Manol’s resort, I placed the trunks I had changed into three times that day behind the door to dry, took a shower, and lay down on the bed. It had started raining on the way back from the falls. I got up eventually and went to the casino for a plate of pork chops, rice, a bottle of Red Horse “Extra Strong” beer and went to the cement patio chair awaiting Malcolm. I wondered if he and I would go to town as he had suggested the day before and go to a disco. We walked with umbrellas the shore road back to the 7-11 stopping off on the way to get a pair of $2 flip-flops to replace my disintegrating sneakers. The drunken young Germans with their flashy tattoos and sun-burned hair were there outside. We went straight to the open air grill and ordered more pork.
Benjor still hadn’t responded, so I thanked Manol and said I’d be happy to take his ride. When the driver finally did respond, it was too expensive and too late. He understood.
 |
| A water dispenser; 2 pesos a glass: |
In the evening to the casino we returned to pass the time. Mary and some family friends, one lovingly drunk, was singing karaoke in the canteen. A pool table covered with a buff tarp sat squat in a shadow to the side inviting us. I chose a song from a shabby clear book binder and waited as Malcolm racked them up. In sloppy non-concentration we shot eight ball forgetting who was stripes and who was solids. We noticed a spectator with a thin scarf draped over the left side of his head and asked him to join. When he cued up, he moved the scarf over the tumor protruding from his jaw. He didn’t have to be shy with us. The tone of his skin matched Malcolm’s of African and Puerto Rican heritage; neither man would experience the white prejudice of Taiwan in the Philippines, with or without a goiter. Came my cue to sing and I excused myself to grab a microphone and belt out “All Along the Watchtower,” the song that wasn't applauded and made a fuss over, unlike in Taiwan’s exaggerated English awe.
 |
| The MWR trike out front |
The rain stopped long enough for us two Taiwan homies to sit on the patio and compare notes. The rain would be coming down steadily all night and the next day; no good even for paragliding.
We walked to the 7-11 in the rain the last morning I was there. The trikes waited for local pick-ups, the foreigners eyed the chocolate bars and chips on the shelves. We passed the time at the western highlight of the village.
At noon, we moved around the corner to an Italian restaurant, once owned by a foreigner. Inside sat a blond-haired blue-eyed couple from Calgary. Malcolm started up a conversation; the male amazed I guessed his age at twenty-eight. He was between jobs and she was changing her career, he said; they decided to explore this part of Asia for a few months.
 |
| Manol's granddaughters by Mary |
It is going so well for Malcolm; he had made all the right connections and the paragliding is legally certified by a partner with government ties; he has local investor and there’s a lot of buzz about him, but he is already moving on to greener pastures before the grass starts to grow on this turf, his best take-off spot in Asia. “I’m not getting any younger,” he said. “I will franchise it out and move to another site, maybe even start an English school.” Sometimes it seems Malcolm’s hands are moving faster than his mind. I guess you get bored sitting around thinking when there aren’t any thermals to whip you up into the azure.
 |
| Manol wrote out as clear a bill as I wanted |
By one o’clock, Manol, one of his three daughters, and I were heading back to the airport on the two-lane, not quite as recklessly as my taxi driver had, and with far more at stake in far more luxury. We talked about everything in those five hours back, from Duterte to communist rebels, to American supremacy, and back to Roman Catholicism; after all, Manol had earlier shown me a cutting board with a stain he said was Jesus. He said three times he had seen his savior; he had built a shrine. To me the stain looked like Mark Twain’s cameo. I regret not taking a photo so you all could decide. I promised and sent Manol Twain’s “Cub Pilot’s Education” with a plot similar to his, about a young man who wished to navigate waters. In the end, it was clear Manol was a worldly family man with a mind as broad and as the seas he piloted merchant vessels on. Thank God Manol was there to guide me; Malcolm wasn’t much of a tour guide after all.
There were plenty of natural wonders I had to pass up on in Oslob, more to return for. Malcolm stays and has a chance to blow it all sky high or ride the warm jets; he has earned his wings to do both.
 |
| Oslob City Hall |
“You can’t get wet when you’re swimming,” is my favorite line.
ReplyDelete