We pressed on, eager to catch our holiday, following the trail of breadcrumbs
left by San Rafael.
There was a snag. There was always a snag. The dive boat, the Nautilus, was
broken—first the plane and now the boat! Not to worry, San Rafael was one step
ahead of us and had made alternate arrangements. Another dive boat, the Svetlana,
had room for our dive tour, but it was already at sea. All we had to do was
catch up with it. Jenny led our headlong rush, herding me along—me, the
self-proclaimed intrepid explorer, lost and reeling in the cacophony of the
East.
“It’s good to be back in Asia.” she confessed, breathing deeply. “I’ve missed it.”
She missed it? How could she miss this? It was even more of a blur in the light of day. There were people everywhere, more people than I had ever imagined, milling about, rushing here and there, gaggling rapidly, smoking incessantly, and their bodies already stinking with the heat, even at this early hour. She swam these waters with ease, reminiscing, while I floundered in the surf, afraid to wade beyond my ankles lest I be carried away in the riptide.
Though my apprehension burned bright enough to guide ships along rocky shores, I tried to suppress my angst. Breathing deeply, as she had, I tasted Manila’s tainted air: the humanity crushed together, the cigarettes, the spices, the smoke of open-air fires burning garbage, and exhaust pipes belching forth copious clouds of carcinogens far in excess of anything I was accustomed to. My breath caught in my throat. I can do this, I coaxed myself, more challenge than assertion. I’m not some newbie. I’ve been places: Toronto, Jamaica, Australia.
I looked to Jenny for support. She radiated glee and excitement. Her show of
confidence was infectious. We had a lifeline in San Raphael. I can do this, I
thought. But then again, I was only along for the ride.
A taxi took us back to the airport. Six lanes of traffic squeezed into four.
Horns pressed into the gridlock.
The flight to Palawan was late. What else was new? By this time, I would have been disappointed otherwise. But it was all right. I was beginning to get the hang of this place and its dichotomy, its hurried sloth. It is a strange place, the East, balancing modern technologies and ancient traditions. It was chaos and tranquility, but I was already becoming desensitized to it.
It ought to be easier this time, I thought, more so than those times before; in all those others I had been alone. Now I had Jenny, she who had missed all this. And I had my trusty Lonely Planet guide; let’s not forget about that.
The flight to Palawan was surprisingly uneventful. The plane was waiting for us. And it worked. We scaled the air stair, took our seats and were off.
I was struck by how provincial Puerto Princesa seemed after the haste of Manila. It was serene by comparison. Rocky up-thrust hills, bristling with tall, stately palms stretched as far as the eye could see. White outriggers bobbed on a placid green sea. Screeching gulls wheeled overhead. Brown faces beamed welcome despite the weight of the heat. Palawan was Eden in Pacifica.
The serenity lasted until I saw the first armed forces truck brimming with armed soldiers bearing arms rush past. I discovered, upon further reading, that Palawan was a hotbed of political strife. Terror abounded there. Muslim extremists clashed with the Roman Catholic government, wielding guns and bombs and, rumour had it, kidnapping and killing tourists. I thanked God we were only staying a couple hours.
Jenny announced that we had a short wait.
“Where? I asked.”
“At a resort,” she said.
It wasn’t much of a resort. It was small, economical, a place a backpacker might call opulent. But it was a pleasant place to kick off our sandals for a couple hours, languishing in the heat.
We sat chatting. Small talk. Getting to know you talk. Jenny told me that she was a Canadian, too. From Ottawa. So was I, I said, being born there. I asked her how she landed in San Francisco. She was about to answer when the proprietor approached us and asked if we’d like a beer. We would, we said. “San Miguel?” he asked. That sounded fine. He asked us if we’d like our beer cold. Good Canadians, we’d like our beer cold. The beer arrived, an iceberg in each mug. The proprietor beamed pride and delight; not every establishment is able to offer such a luxury as ice. Thrilled to be nearing our final destination and lounging in the tropics, we drank deeply, only contemplating Hepatitis A, B, C and Z after half our beers were drained. Too late, we shrugged. We raised a toast, clinked our mugs and trusted to inoculations and fate. We joked about Russian roulette and drained what remained. More San Miguels awaited.
The sun tracked across the sky and dipped closer to the horizon as I nursed the second San Miguel, looking content, self-satisfied and feeling rather Hemingway-esque.
Jenny called San Rafael, finalizing our transportation—the last leg of our
relay race. I was a little nervous. I’d never had to catch a boat before. I
tried to radiate an appropriate masculine calm.
“We’ll catch the boat,” she soothed, “not to worry.”
How could I worry? I, oblivious to her stress, was in her miraculous hands.
A Jeepney collected us, shining chrome, lit by more coloured lights than would be needed for three Christmas trees. Jesus, I thought, it was warded by more religious stickers than I could count. Little passages of Scripture. Jesus and Mary and Saint Christopher.
To take us to the market, the proprietor explained. “You have to buy food and
water for the trip.”
Trip? What trip? I’d forgotten that the Svetlana was at sea.
Food? Why food? How long would it take to get there
It would take some time, I was told.
“How long?” I asked.
Fourteen hours.
I gasped.
What to buy? I don’t recognize any brands on the shelves. Flustered, I decided on bananas, a package of biscuits, some sort of flaky pastry and some fruit drinks; and water, about two litres worth. The cashier laughed, obviously amused by my apparent confusion.
Provisions purchased for sailing into uncharted waters, the intrepid explorer, now immersed in a fugue of culture shock, was ready for what might come. We were driven to the docks. Acrid smoke spewed from the garbage burning alongside our route. Plastic, rubber tires, Styrofoam, soiled diapers, banana peels; they burned everything. Jeepneys and Trikes jockeyed for position, brayed and bleated shrill horns under a cobalt sky. Brakes were rarely applied as the vehicles swerved and squealed to avoid crushing pedestrians who, smiling apologies or ignoring us altogether, walked, ran and scurried across our path, placing their lives in God’s or Allah’s benevolent hands. A frantic, rushing, jostling medley of humanity flowed around us.
The Jeepney parked on the jetty at an empty concrete pier. Its lights were the only thing pressing back the pitch of onrushing night.
“We are here,” the proprietor said.
I stood and looked about, but standing revealed no more than sitting. The pier
appeared as empty as before.
“Where’s the boat?” I asked.
“There,” the proprietor pointed. His finger pointed down to the waterline.
Guided by his finger, I saw it: a shallow boat, its white paint peeling like
moulting scales and stinking of fish and gasoline. Thirty feet long and thin as
a spear, its outriggers slapped the black waters as it rocked in the surf. A
low covered box of a cabin, flat roofed, graced its hull.
Three Filipinos sat aft, smoking, their faces sinister behind the red glow of
their cigarettes.
They looked like pirates.
