In Transit: The Return

I am extremely grateful that the life we live is just as much as an adventure as traveling. While it is difficult to see the end of a journey, I am always excited to return to a bit of normalcy with a washing machine, body pillow, and my kitchen. Yet, before we run forth into the upcoming semester, here are the tales of our return transit.

LAPU LAPU or LITTLE KOREA

We bid farewell to our island haven on a beautiful tropic morning, trading an island beach for a massive swimming pool. We decided to stay in Lapu Lapu for two nights to ensure that we were near the airport in time for our departure. We did not have high expectations for this area, especially after seeing Cebu City. Sadly, it was as bad as we expected. We had caught a flash deal on Expedia for a resort stay, which is where we perched for a day and a half since nothing was around. Walking out the front gate, we were met with a Korean restaurant on the left, two Korean restaurants on the opposite side of the street, and a Korean restaurant to the left. Walking in either direction did not increase the options other than to include a grocery store and a pizza place. There was no beach walk or side walk. Exploring was minimal.

The morning we left the resort, a newspaper on the coffee table had the bold headline of NAT GEO SAYS CEBU IS NEXT BACKPACKER DESTINATION. When I pointed it out to Zach, he laughed. We saw and understood the tourism desperation throughout our trip; travelers bring money. Backpackers put money into local economies rather than tourist traps and (usually) government owned businesses. However, resorts have filled in Cebu's beaches and that is definitely not something most backpackers want nor can afford.

MANILA AIRPORT

We have officially bestowed the Banker's Award for World's Worst Airport to this conglomeration of buildings. One restroom with three stalls for an entire terminal does not scream ready for actual visitors. We had a four hour layover, which was five hours too many. However, we did see a movie being filmed in the domestic arrival hall (which probably means low budget if they were using this airport). Plus, in the international terminal, we ran into a teacher from our local international school.

HONG KONG

Landing in Hong Kong was even a jolt to the system, weather wise and courtesy wise. Our bodies shuddered in the overcast, drizzly evening. Our emotions were jolted with the pushing, shoving and courtesy-lacking attitudes through immigration. We nursed our initial re-entry shock with a dinner at a Indian restaurant with live music, relishing in good vegetarian food and warmth-giving cups of chai tea. Afterwards, we strolled the waterfront to enjoy the spring festival decorations. By the time we went to bed, we were happy to be back.

At 7am, that happiness was thwarted when the banging and drilling started next door. Of course, there was construction...

ZHANJIANG

The adopted motherland welcomed us back in the only way she knows how...with chaos, hilarity, and a stroll along a dark road in search of a taxi.

Our return journey began with an airport reunion with Brian and Marshall. Without any cahooting, we ended up on the same flight out of Hong Kong bound for Zhanjiang. They had spent their holiday gallivanting about Sri Lanka, so to listen to their travel tales allowed us to relive some of ours from last year. Also, during our pre-boarding chat, we laughed about how gates for Zhanjiang flights are always in the dark recesses of airports, the farthermost nook. The forsaken gate that was overlooked during renovations or used to be the junk catchall for an airline. The dungeon with a sliding door that leads onto a bus, because gangplanks are not long enough to reach from so low to so high. (However, this is a mainland China issue for they build huge airports, but then airlines park away from the gate to dodge the terminal fees.)

After a spin around the tarmac, we boarded. Having been forewarned by Marshall, we made sure to listen to the new warnings being played on Chinese flights. When was the last time you heard on a flight that you absolutely cannot open the door and inflate the slide? Or passengers are not allowed to hit the flight attendants? Chinese flights are always chaotic, and this one was no different. We did not have any aisle battles or people inflating their life vest, but we did see the flight attendants spend a good five minutes to wake a woman whose kids were feral and terrorizing the passengers around them. Also, our seatmate thought thirty minutes before landing was the perfect time to turn on her phone and answer a call.

This was our first experience with the ZHA international terminal and it was a delight. Designating it as a terminal is generous. I feel the process of its creation began with the edict from above that a new international arrival hall was needed. With this stamped piece of paper, the airport boss walked out onto the tarmac, did a 360 turn, scratched his head, hmmm-ed a bit, did another turn, sighted a derelict storage building off to the side and said to his aide, "That will work." In the following days, the workers proceeded to move junk, boxes, a motley collection of chairs around to give a path. Then someone realized that international arrivals meant immigration. In a bit of a panic, they googled immigration set-ups, hmm-ed some more, then pieced together gray boxes with Plexiglas tops. Yet, in their research they forgot to understand the flow of how immigration should work.

After disembarking, we were herded into a small room in the back of the building where we waited for our luggage. No, it did not come on a conveyor belt but luggage carts driven to the door. At this point, we had to walk back out onto the tarmac to claim it. Utter chaos. With luggage in hand, we headed for immigration. The entire process is in reverse to the norm. We stood behind the gray box to wait. It felt a bit like a what-is-behind-door-number-three-type of game. On our turn, we walked around the box to stand in front. After being stamped, we then had to put our baggage through an X-ray machine before walking out the door. I still do not know what they are looking for as passengers exit. Oh wait, the guard was standing by the machine, no where near the screen to see what was being scanned.

On the outside, we reconvened with Marshall and Brian, catching up on all that had happened within the last hour and half. We had a good, long chat while strolling in search of a taxi. Apparently, the international terminal has not been made known to taxi drivers, or drivers of any mode of transportation for that matter, so we had to walk to the far side of the domestic terminal where there is a taxi stand. Nothing says welcome back to China like a good "what the hell is going on here" moment.

We felt extra loved by China after opening our hutong door and having our second "what the hell is going on here" moment upon seeing the mold on our walls.

Ah, China, it is good to see you. You just could not tell because I had to immediately put on a face mask and spend hours spraying bleach. 

Madridejos: The Wild North

Bantayan is divided into three districts - Santa Fe (south), Bantayan (central), and Madridejos (north). Santa Fe is the tourist section of the island for that is where the port, majority of guesthouses, restaurants and best beaches are located. Bantayan is the hub of the island - government buildings, schools, main market, lone ATM of the island, and the St. Peter and Paul Church. Madridejos is the far northern land to which all locals will exclaim "Oh, it is so far!" when we ask about it.

16 kilometers. 9.9 miles.

Distance discussions are definitely relative on perspective. It is so funny to hear that an island that measuring 16 kilometers by 11 kilometers has places that are so far away. 

We decided to brave the long trek and found the far north is home to a few sites of interest. Our first stop was at Kota Park, a crumbling fort. The information sign gave a mere broad stroke of the fort's history. I found its composition more entertaining than the history itself, for who builds a fort with egg whites and red sugar as main construction materials. When the canned goods ran out, eating the fort was the residents' salvation in time of attack? Or was this the trial run for Willy Wonka? My imagination ran wild with endless confectionery possibilities. However, Fort Meringue is in poor condition.

The front door is barricaded due to the crumbling archway, but the back corner is missing thus acting like a backdoor. Restoration or upkeep of any kind has been completely abandoned, proven by the crumbling alcoves and motley assortment of items. One alcove held seven random jars and a disturbing statue of a raven devouring a snake...I think.

The entire inside-Fort-Meringue stroll took approximately five minutes.

Next was the long walkway off the end of the island. A nice walk, as long as we kept looking down in order to sidestep the missing sections. Granted our fall would have been into shallow ocean, but my leg still bears the mark of another run in with concrete rubble.

I have noticed that Filipino signs have a flair for the dramatic, especially in regards to spirituality, and the bridge marker was no different. It read: Officer Lecaros "whose relentless effort and unselfish sacrifice broke his own construction record by completing the 187 meters foot bridge in 40 days and 40 nights." I did look to see if an ark was docked at the end.

Overall, Madridejos is a quaint fishing village far from the foreign influence of tourism. The bridge and fort are not a huge draw except for those of us who relish the bizarre. After walking through the surrounding villages and watching locals shoot hoops, we hopped onto a jeepney and headed south.

Our ATM pitstop in Bantayan was met with the rat-a-tat-tat of snare drums, the bong of bass drums, and the squawking notes of trumpets. Perplexed, we stood on the side of the road and watched two separate marching bands walk opposite directions among the afternoon rush hour. The locals went about their business, seemingly unaware that music mayhem was strolling down the street. They seemed more interested in our reaction than that of the band. It was awesome and completely bizarre. The only reason we could fathom for this joyful event was that it announced the end of the school day. It was a warning to parents and guardians that the children had been let loose, so be prepared.

 
Returning to our guesthouse, we started asking about the marching bands. The consensus was that it was practice, but for what purpose varied greatly. A few thoughts included an upcoming fiesta, a performance, or something to do with Valentine's Day. I asked if wooing with a marching band was a common practice on the island. The employees (all girls) started giggling and conveniently found something they needed to be doing. I will take that as a yes.

Ogtong Cave: A Change of Scenery

Every morning, the employees have reminded us that we can obtain a day pass to visit the sister resort, Ogtong Cave. Happy with our little plot of sand, we would respond that one day we would go. They would say with gusto, "It has a pool!" We eventually decided that a day by a pool would be a nice change of scenery, so today was the day.

The resort is set into two parts - one section is for day pass guests, while the other is for overnight guests (though they have access to the entire resort). True to the resort name, there is a cave in the day pass section that guests can swim in at their leisure. I walked down into the cave, but actually enjoyed swimming in the pool so much that I forgot to return to the cave for a dip. We were allowed to hang out in the overnight guest section which was the better pool and lounge chairs.

As the sun began to set, we decided to stroll back rather than take the shuttle. This was a new section of beach to walk, yet it held the familiar hum. Nets were being untangled and set. Last minute maintenance was being rendered on the boats. Children ran amok, giggling.

The sun set and we made our way back to our little plot of sand by the sea, content. 

Today

Today, kite surfers garnered the attention of all on the beach.

Today, I was reminded that when you are going to commandeer a coconut you need a reliable partner in crime.

Today, I weeded through pictures. I am so blessed to see what I get to see and pictures are an amazing reminder of that.

Today, Zach and I laughed again at our dinner fail earlier in the week. We tried a new restaurant because it claimed to have Mexican food. We ordered a cheese quesadilla and a bean burrito. This is what we got.

Two bites later, we were on our way to find the main course.

We are still laughing.

Wheels of Bantayan

Modes of transportation in Asia are spectacular! The splash of colors and bedazzlements combined with a wild idea of how metal can contort around a motor and wheels is equal parts fascinating and entertaining. Cars and trucks are rare sights on the island, so I have enjoyed snapping shots of the wheels of Bantayan.

Motorbikes are the mules of Asia. I have determined this trip that I definitely need to learn how to drive one well. My adventurous spirit far exceeds skill on this one.

The main source of income for many men is being the muscle behind the side-car pedal bikes. They are a very quiet ride.

The next step is the side-car motorbike. These come in passenger or cargo styles. Personally, if my dad made his hardware deliveries in one of these badboys, I would probably still be living at home.

Tricycles are the community carpool vehicle. Hard benches and a tight squeeze make for a fun ride. It is a great way to people watch - who gets in and out.

Plus, if you get squeezed to the front, it feels like you are the driver.

The jeepneys are the hot rods of Asia. Big, burly and crammed full of people, their status as the public transit of the Philippines is well earned. Also, one cannot use the excuse they missed the bus because they could not see it.

The Day We Decided to Stay

We were grumpy. Quite grumpy.

Bantayan was everything we wanted – beach, sand, surf, relaxation. Yet, our arrival was met with a confluence of unfortunate incidents. The ruthless storm system moving through Asia was barreling through the Philippines making it a rather soggy place. While an inconvenience, it was not the sole culprit. That was our guesthouse.

Reading guesthouse reviews is a skill we have honed well. Unfortunately, our skills failed us when we selected this one. Booked for five nights on Agoda, by day two we were determined to survive and escape. First, the Dutch owner was on holiday. Sadly, this is always a red flag in Asia that things will not go well. Second, an old German dude and his Filipino wife were in residence and she thought she was the boss. Within our first ten minutes on the premise, she had announced that she looked after the place while the owner was gone, came every year, and they got a great discount because they were loyal. By day two, we had dubbed her Attila the Hun. The workers were her personal minions and thus they steered clear of the place and us.

Third, our beach hut was a disaster. While cute, it harbored nastiness and the entire insect world. We feared we faced our first experience with bedbugs, yet could not truly discern their existence between the hundreds of ants that crawled over any and everything, the tiny gnats, sand fleas, or the relentless mosquitoes. Our bodies were a battleground, scarred by varying sizes of bites. Zach getting bit tipped us off that we were facing abnormality; my epitaph will read, “Here lies Amanda…it was a bug.” Beyond the accommodations, the beachfront was a disaster and filthy. The lounge chairs looked as though they had been scavenged post-typhoon and placed with a, “well, they should be fine.”

Fourth, we were surrounded by villages. This may seem crass considering we live in a Chinese village, but I do not make this claim lightly. Reading the reviews, complaints of the surrounding villages was ignored because we love village life. Our mistake. While watching the village work, especially the fisherman and the endearing children, was and remains a highlight of this journey, their 6am jam-fest which made our bed throb, motorcycles doing donuts around the complex, incessant roosters who could not tell what time of the day it was, and never-ending karaoke did us in. Seriously, there is only so many times a person can hear I Swear sung so badly before questioning their sanity.

However, the biggest thing we noticed was that the villagers seemed to not have a good relationship with the guesthouse. Anytime we would stroll through, their expressions were not of hospitality but rather of disdain. A great contrast to the villages we walked closer to the pier. We felt tension with our presence.

Within our guesthouse, we also noticed that no one stayed past one night. One evening, a man became so frustrated with Attila’s headphone-less rapture show watching, he yelled at her. They were gone the next day. Extended stays were not to be.

I felt shame. We were in a beautiful place, but we were irritable. Each day we would spend time discussing the good points – comfy porch furniture, a lot of plugins, nice garden setting – then Attila would storm through and toxicity would permeate.

With our five nights checked off, we happily donned our packs and moved up the beach. A few nights earlier we had stopped at this guesthouse for dinner since the cook at our place was missing. The hospitality was amazing and the food tasted good. Plus, the owner sat down to chat with us – a local whose great-grandfather had immigrated from China. We had made a connection.

After unlocking our new door, I cried. I do not know if it was the relief of being out of a noxious environment, the lack of sleep for incessant crawling creatures during the night, or the shock that we actually survived. Ten minutes later, I was laying on a nice beach chair, on a clean beach, in my swimsuit, reading, while the waves lulled me to serenity.

Children still played.

Fishermen still worked around us.

The villagers were hospitable, full of smiles and hellos.

We had booked for five nights.

We talked with people, locals and travelers. Where should we go next? What should we see in the Cebu area? Bohol. Oslob. Malapascua. Yet, no recommendation was given with gusto or abounding enthusiasm. With every suggestion, it was followed by, “…it won’t be much different than this.”

Our deciding factor came after talking to a family staying the night in our place. The older couple had traveled from the US to meet their daughter who lived in Germany. They were on reconnaissance for a future trip for the entire family. They had been blazing a trail through Cebu and surrounding areas, so we asked their opinion on where our next destination should be. The wife looked me in the eyes and said, “Other places are nice, but why would you give this up? You would trade a beach for a beach when this is the nicest place we have been to so far.”

That night, Zach and I sat on the beach and talked. We had made the decision to slow down this year, but could we actually stay still. We discussed the pros and cons, what we would see, what would transit be like, what would costs be, and the handful of other categories we conjure during holiday mode.

Beaches and diving.

Diving and beaches.

These two are the draw of the Philippines. Since we do not dive, we beach. It seemed we were repeatedly challenged to why we would give up the (seemingly) hidden gem of the Visayas for another beach? We could not come up with a valid reason. Thus, it is the day we decided to stay.

The following morning dawned glorious. The four-tone blue ocean beckoned. My toes were happy walking across the sand to my beach chair, Nook in hand. I had vowed to exchange the extraordinary for the ordinary on this journey.

Children played.

Fishermen repaired boats.

The ferry sounded its arrival horn.

I smiled and began to read.

Perspective

Sometimes one needs to pause outrigger gymnastics to gain a new perspective on the world.

Bangkas and Fishermen

The main occupation of this island is fishing. The beach is filled with bangkas, the local fishing boat. During the day, I watch repairs be done as children play in and around the boats. Adults semi-chiding their squeals of delight while romping. As dusk settles, fishing nets are straightened and stacked via a two person pulling system. With the last ray of sunshine, the bangkas take to the sea.

Island Ice Cream

When a side-car motorbike carrying a vintage metal container cruised onto the beach, the children went running. Interest piqued, I watched a woman open the top of the canister and begin dishing out ice cream cones. When the crowd waned, the boat captain and first mate transferred (with a lot of grunting) the traveling ice cream cooler to the boat. Before they departed, Zach was able to get a cone.

We learned afterwards that the locals call this dirty ice cream.