Culture Shock

My time on the Svetlana was short, two days shy of what my stay on the Nautica ought to have been. The days were filled with discovery, though, each day as wondrous as the last.

There was little privacy, though, not with our rooms open, our showers on deck, and the only common area in continuous use being the aft open (and somewhat covered) deck where our gear was hung to dry, and almost all our meals were served, where the sun was. There was another lounge forward, fully enclosed, well-provided with couches, games table, TV and VCR, but we rarely entered it by day. We’d spend an hour or so in it at day’s end, but we were usually so exhausted by the day’s dives that we’d find ourselves in bed no later than ten.

The meals were ample, the larder fully stocked for a full complement of passengers and crew, which surprised me considering the week had been set aside for one heiress and her instructor. A few meals stood out for me. We were served jumbo shrimp that I originally mistook for lobster. My family was never one for shellfish (my mother’s not a fan), so I had no clue what to do. I leaned into Kim and asked her what it was and how to eat it. She took that in stride, and before I knew it, I was cracking them open with as much aptitude as the others. The King crab were another matter. I cut myself on their spines with each leg gripped and snapped.

We had a free afternoon on day as we cruised from one reef to another. I took the time to lay some tan on. Or so I planned. I pulled out the SPF, the first time I had on the trip and began to slather it about, taking great care to reach each and every exposed inch. We were on the 8th latitude, the closest I’d ever been to the equator, so I knew the sun would be the strongest I would have ever experienced. Kim helped me to get my back. Protected, I stretched out on a lounge chair out from under our aft awning.
I suffered no more than ten minutes, if that. It wasn’t that it was hot. It was. It was like being trapped in a microwave oven. I could actually feel the sun’s rays penetrating me. It felt like being stabbed by thousands of needles. It wasn’t painful, it’s just impossible to describe the sensation. I flopped on my back for a short time to the same affect. After about five minutes a side, I felt seared. I’d had enough. It was too much for my tender Northern Ontario Irish flesh. I grabbed my towel, and danced back across the hot plate of deck panels, back under the protection of the overhead canvas.

“Had enough?” Jenny asked me.

“Jesus,” I cursed as I dropped into my usual seat. “I’ve never felt the sun that strong before.”

That’s when I was told what latitude we were on.

I didn’t bother trying to tan again. But I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my face, arms and legs did brown to a rich golden hue. It was a shortie tan, rather similar to a farmer’s tan, but unless I was naked, no one could tell.

We bid farewell to the heiress and the crew back in Puerto Princesa, making our way back to the airport. The flight to Lauzon was delayed. What else is new? But only by two hours. We landed in Manila, and headed south to Anilao, and then Bagalangit.

We stopped for lunch along the way. I wanted to go the water closet afterwards, to wash, to pee before getting back on the road, and walked into a room that could only be described as culture shock. It was an Asian WC (water closet). By that I mean had I needed to do anything but pee, I’d have had no clue what to do. There was a long concrete wall ending in a trough that drained into a hole. That wall was self-evident. There was a hole in the concrete floor beside it with a water bucket alongside. No toilet paper. No toilet! I knew which hole was for which, but had I been in need of the larger hole, I’d have been at a loss.

Bagalangit was beautiful. It was a stretch of rocky rolling hills. It was wooded, jungled. Its structures clung to the cliffs that plunged into the ocean. Our “resort” was much the same. We parked alongside the road that thread down to the base of the peninsula on a weathered side strip, got out of the shuttle, and slid down the stone stair walkway to our home for the next week. I saw thatch, I saw bamboo slats, I saw a stone foundation. One flank dug into the slope, the other side perched on tall green stilts that anchored in their stonework, our rooms on the top ground floor, the kitchens, offices, dining room and gear were on the lower beach ground floor. A concrete base faced a thin strip of sand that gave way to a tumble of rocky stones that collided with the surf. Birds called, monkeys hooted, howled and screamed, the surf rolled in and in again.

We signed our wavers, noted our credit cards, and scaled the stairs to our rooms, where we met those joining us for a second week. I found a hostel. Bunks lined the walls, six to our room, the bath behind, beads separating it and what lay behind. Were one to look in from my bunk, one would have a clear view of the sink and the toilet behind it (at least there was a toilet). Fully half the room was a tiled shower. No shower curtain. The toilet faced the shower, the showerhead the toilet.

That would take some getting used to.

A gecko barked. It scampered from hoist to trestle, searching the thatch for a meal.

If you’d never had a gecko in your room, that too could take some getting used to.