Peaceful.
Chaotic.
Terrifying as fuck (bus ride to Santa's village).
So unless I capture pieces of scenery with with a photograph, past landscapes often blend together into emotion for me.
 |
| Awe. |
"Hello!" a boy bathing on El Nido's beach shouted at me as I passed.
"Hello!" I replied cheerfully, thinking of Matt and how he always engaged the children who wanted to practice their English. "How are you?"
"Good!" the little boy exclaimed, delighted that I'd stopped to chat."How are you?"
"I'm great!" I smiled. "How old are you?"
"Eleven," he said proudly as the waves gently carried him back and forth. "How old are you?"
"Oh, I'm very old."
The boy and his two lady-friends giggled.
"Very, very old," I continued, relishing their glee. "I'm TWENTY-SEVEN!"
"You're too old for my MOM!" the eleven year-old exclaimed.
Well... I'm not quite THAT old...
I also notice quirks. Well, I don't just notice quirks -- I keep my eyes peeled for those guys. I seek out the unique fragments which help me grasp the fact that I'm in a new country ('cos it happens so often these days that I'm prone to forgetting details like that).
The Philippines is an exceptionally quirky place.
Quirk the First
People in the service industry are excessively helpful and friendly. As in, they put tip-reliant servers in American restaurants to shame. I have never shared Ellie with so many strangers (I get a little jealous, frankly. Ellie's my home, dammit. How dare she cuddle up with so many fellows. She's allowed to get frisky with other backpacks, but not all these remarkably good-looking Filipinos. This is where Bourget draws the line). Also, I have never been called "ma'am," or "mum," or "mom," (English is hard, don't judge. Maybe just giggle a little) so often in my life. And it's not unusual for rickshaw drivers or servers to cover all their bases and simply call me, "MumSir."
"Yes, MumSir?"
"What would you like, SirMum?"
"Can I get you a drink, MumSir?"
baha... I just... Oh dear. I love this. MUMSIR. It needs to be a thing. A thing everywhere. Not just the Philippines. Talk about gender inclusive.
However, regardless of how immensely fond I am of "MumSir," I feel like something of an imposter whenever I'm addressed as such. I'm overcome with the urge to pull the server aside and whisper in her ear, "Hey... I'm really just a vagabond. You don't need to call me MumSir. It's weird. 'Cos I'm not that kind of lady. Like, I know that right now, I'm staying in a super nice hotel, but normally, I'm homeless. I still have two big boxes in my parent's attic because I don't have anywhere else for those guys to live. I haven't paid rent in seven years."
If I ever get to open a door for myself in the Philippines, it's probably because I'm using the loo. Which, oddly enough, is referred to as a "comfort room." Which makes sense in the fact that I am unequivocally more comfortable when I leave a comfort room than when I enter it, but still makes me chuckle a bit.
Quirk the Second
Boys, girls and MumSirs stroll the narrow, sandy beaches of El Nido, trying to slough off rubbish jewelry onto gullible tourists. This, in and of itself, is not quirky, as people sell tourists crap everywhere -- but I like noticing crap particular to a place. Along with strands of fake pearls, waterproof bags and cellphone cases are particular to the beaches of El Nido. These items are significantly more useful and require significantly less gullible tourists for the purchasing thereof.
Quirk the Third
Jesus stuff is everywhere. I didn't think it was possible to enter more of a Jesus Land than Grand Junction, Colorado. But oh, it is. It is very possible. Jesus Land becomes exponentially more Jesusy in The Philippines.
I climbed into a rickshaw the other day and saw this:
Coincidentally, this rickshaw nearly collided with a teenage boy who recklessly ran across the road.
I guess Jesus leads rickshaws headlong into reckless teenage boys. Who knew?
I passed an ice cream cart jostling down the main walking street of El Nido, and noticed that it dutifully proclaimed, "Jesus is Lord!"
I did not purchase any Jesus ice cream. I am a firm believer that ice cream should taste of sin. And Jesus ice cream would either have the flavor of immaculate conception or crucifixion, neither of which I (personally) crave in a refreshing dessert.
(Boy says Jesus ice cream would taste of stale bread and fishes, but I disagree)
Quirk the Fourth
There are random, cliché morality signs posted all the over the place, thoughtfully reminding locals and tourists alike to strive for virtue.
"Be Honest."
"Work Hard."
"Drive considerately."
"Stay away from the coconuts."
Quirk the Fifth
Filipinos laugh with enviable ease. They seem to give themselves completely over to their laughter. To be swept up by it. Carried away in it. Never have I witnessed a nationality (generally speaking) laugh so fully.
And I'm a little in love with it.
Quirk the Sixth
They're a little obsessed with assigning personality to things. Which is something I also adore (and find hilarious). Most rock formations assume religious characters. For instance, this is the Virgin Mary:
"Use your imagination!" the Filipino tour guide exhorted us. Then proceeded to tell us that that the rock to Mary's right was "Peeing Batman's friend.
Andrej and I are sitting at The Art Cafe in El Nido (a good distance from "peeing Batman's friend"). A cafe at which we must lounge for a good thirty minutes before we're able to catch a server's attention and are brought a menu. And where we have to wait another 30 minutes before we're able to beckon someone over to take our order.
"How do they make any money?" Andrej and I wonder as we eat our mediocre food.
We sit at Art Cafe for neither its mediocre food nor the lousy service. We sit at Art Cafe because in El Nido, it is one of the only places wherein one can procure a smidgen of internet.
If this is good Wi-Fi, than bad Wi-Fi is merely non-existent Wi-Fi. 'Cos the Wi-Fi here is so dismal that it DIES every few minutes and it appears as if I would expire before successfully uploading three images to my blog.
Wi-Fi was better in Nepal. And Guatemala. Come on, Philippines.
We find ourselves with a free morning, which was quite unexpected. We'd actually expected to be island hopping around El Nido at this moment, doing a bit of snorkeling and maybe drinking piña coladas.
Why are we here instead of admiring all the pretty fishes and drinking piña coladas on an island tour?
We got ripped off. Conned by our scalawag of a rickshaw driver. And we're both feeling rather foolish about our gullibility.
We're almost as bad as the folks who buy the fake strands of pearls.
Our hostel is located a five minute rickshaw drive away from the main area of El Nido, so we dish out 50 pesos for a ride every time we venture into town. On our journey home yesterday afternoon, our Scalawag rickshaw driver asked the question every single rickshaw driver asks.
"What will you do tomorrow?"
"We're going to book an island tour."
"Oh, which one?"
"Tour A."
"I can get you a discounted price," Scalawag wheedled.
I probably wouldn't accept an offer like this in Nepal... but in the Philippines, maybe it's legit. People here seem really honest. Prices are always the same. Everyone seems fair. Straightforward.
"My brother has a shop," Scalawag continued. "If I take you there, he can give you the tour for 1000 pesos instead of 1200. And I can pick you up from your hostel tomorrow morning."
"What do you think, Cat?" Andrej asked.
"Why not?" I shrugged my shoulders.
Idiot.
Scalawag spun around and sped to his brother's place, a nondescript booking agency down a nondescript lane.
Nondescript doesn't mean non-legit, though...
Maybe I just wanna trust people all the time. Yeah. That's probably it.
We were asked about whether or not we'd paid our environmental tax by a legit looking fellow. Then we signed in on a legit looking sheet, paid the 2000 very legit pesos, were given a receipt for the transaction and were told to arrive at the shop by 8:45 the next morning.
Which is today.
"What else are you doing?" Scalawag driver continued to milk us on our second attempt to get back to Island Hop.
"We're going to Coron on the 11th," Andrej said.
"I can get you discounted price!"" Scalawag driver pounced.
"What kind of discount?" I asked, finally putting on my bargaining boots since my Kiwi wasn't around to do it for me.
"We'll see how tomorrow goes and maybe we will book after that," Andrej interrupted, not eager to put all his eggs in this random rickshaw driver's basket.
Bloody good thing, too.
"Today is my birthday," Scalawag informed us. "My parents are dead. I have a sister to take care of. She is my only family."
Except your older brother? Who owns a shop you just took us to, like, five seconds ago? What?
Scalawag must have realized his story didn't quite compute, 'cos after a quick think, he added, "My brother has his own family, so he can't help us."
"That's too bad," I said rather dryly.
Scalawag fell silent for the rest of the short commute. Until he asked for extra money when he dropped us off in front of Island Hop.
"Is sixty okay?" Andrej asked. "I don't have much change."
"You can give me the five hundred," Scalawag peered into Andrej's wallet.
"Here," I handed Scalawag another twenty pesos. "See you tomorrow morning."
Andrej and I sat on the bench outside of Island Hop Hostel at 8:15, bags packed and waiting for Scalawag to appear, as promised.
8:30 rolled around.
"Cat, do you have the key to our room? I'm just going to get my wallet and check the receipt to see if the name of the shop is on it. That way we can go by ourselves," Andrej headed up the stairs to our stanky room.
The receipt had no shop name. No address. It was a profoundly useless slip of yellow paper.
Damn. Well played, Scalawag. Well played indeed.
"Do you know how to get back to the shop?"
"Nope."
"Well. That's it, then."
"Let's not let it give us indigestion."
We booked the same tour from our hostel, paying the proper 1200 per person, and knowing that it would actually happen. That we'd get to see all the pretty fishes and drink our piña coladas.
We paddled a kayak around a breathtaking small lagoon. And by we, I mean, more specifically, Andrej. Andrej paddled because because I'd gotten food poisoning the day before and was otherwise occupied with not dying.
Those heinous bloody shrimp. Blurgh. Worst time to be sick. On an island hopping tour. Vomiting in my mouth every five minutes makes it hard to appreciate how stunning all this is.
"That's the life!" a woman laughed as she saw me reclining in the kayak as Andrej competently paddled us along.
If only she knew.
I burped tragically and feebly lifted my head to snap the odd picture.
It's so... pretty... but... stomach acid. In my mouth. All the time.
While we (Andrej) paddled around the small lagoon, our guides began grilling fish and pork on the boat for our lunch.
Pork... Fish... you guys normally smell so lovely.
You do not smell lovely now.
Andrej bought me a coconut from a coconut kayak, and the refreshing water slightly soothed my uproarious stomach.
We lingered for lunch on an island with a soft, sandy beach. Upon arriving, I immediately sprawled out on my sarong and tried to nap in the sunshine.
I was able to get down a bit of rice, watermelon and a few pieces of pork (I couldn't resist), then returned to my sarong and was lulled to sleep by the melodic rumbling of my tummy.
We popped into a few more lagoons after our lunch break.
We sped back to El Nido late that afternoon.
I'm so glad I rallied for the tour and got to experience all this unbelievable beauty, but I'm quite content to be heading home, I glared at my belly, which seemed to be engaged in a cutthroat competition with the boat's motor.
No more spicy shrimp, Bourget.
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