Cagayan de Oro

We're in Cagayan de Oro now, which means our time in the Philippines is drawing to a close. It doesn't seem possible we've been here nearly a month.

Turning 30 (in Camiguin)

It's hot, but I've grown so used to it I sometimes forget, until I start wondering why I have no energy and want to sleep and why my skin's so unbearably sticky.

We gave the motorbike back and have nothing planned for the rest of the day. I think I might take a dip in the frothy ocean to cool off, but I've seen no one in there and have to wonder why. Is it just that "black sand" (brown, really) is less enticing? Or is there something nefarious about the waters here?

All of this is written just to distract me from the thought that I'm officially 30. Chris says I'm taking it exceptionally hard. It's just another reminder of my mortality, I guess.

I feel impatient, restless, as though waiting for something to happen. It's so still and quiet here. German Martin in Malapascua saw me writing in my journal once and said, "Ah, travel diary? Yes, I used to keep one of those. And then I realized I was spending two hours a day writing when I could have been living my life!" Suddenly apologetic, he added, "Of course, when I read through the pages later it was nice to see what I had done..." We nodded, yes yes, it's nice.

The dogs here are so naked it's almost embarrassing. The females, especially, with their swollen teats that make you think, "There're too many!" They walk languidly, as I do. Only the puppies have energy to run.

Camiguin

Camiguin now. Was it just yesterday we left Anda? Seems a lifetime ago.

Tomorrow I turn 30. It's dreadful to think I will have been alive for three decades. My father: six. He must say to himself sometimes, I'm 60 now, and I still have to worry about my 30-year-old daughter. But I can't let myself think about that.

We rented a motorbike today. It was the first time Chris had ever driven one and only the fourth or fifth time I'd ever ridden one, always in a foreign country. I burned my leg badly on the tailpipe. It's a sick-looking grayish purple but seems much better than it did at first. Afterwards I was afraid of the damned vehicle, but of course I had to get on again.

We were cheerful tonight, eating margherita pizza and spaghetti frutti di mare at Luna's Ristorante. The food was surprisingly good and not over-salted as it is at many other places in the Philippines. Of course we had to pay more. I keep telling Chris we ought to go to Italy if he's going to be craving pizza all year.

It's awful to have finished my books too early, to have nothing to read, nothing with which to beat away the night. Instead I listen to the incomprehensible voices of the French backpackers next door. Two young men: friends, most likely--they don't seem like lovers. They said they will keep traveling until they run out of money. I don't bother to ask, And then what? It's not a question travelers enjoy answering. One of them rode the Trans-Siberian railroad recently. He told us to take second class because third class was too lonely. I believe him. Riding on trains for thousands of miles. It seems quiet, but it's probably actually pretty noisy. But the kind of noise that keeps you out.

Leaving Anda

We're always leaving in the morning to sunrises and puffy pink clouds.

* * * * *

We left Anda without really noticing it. Chris evinced none of his usual sorrow at leaving a place, or, rather having to endure change. Instead, his face had a look on it of absence or preoccupation, his brows two crinkling caterpillars arched toward embrace.

We're in Jagna now, come too early for the ferry to Camiguin. A nice breeze blows. I like the look of the palm trees, stark against the slate sky.

* * * * *

I'm deliriously tired again. Slept poorly. The mosquitoes bit my toes through the netting. And then there was so little room in that tiny tent, especially when we took such pains not to let our sticky skins touch. Each change in position became a delicate maneuver. Then a reactionary shuffling from the other. A couple of wide-eyed blinks before drowsiness and the outlines of a dream took over. Thank God no karaoke, though.

Beach Day

The sand is soft and fine where it's clear of plastic and kelp, twigs and leaves. It sticks to my skin in sheets, like a fine dust. Today we sit on the beach in the shade, reading and napping. In the morning we played in the surf, letting the warm water and gentle waves carry us. Why do we like splashing in the water so much? Children can spend an entire day in the water, playing and screaming and laughing. I remember one of the happiest moments of my childhood being a day spent at the beach in Fulong, Taiwan. My parents bought me a large, floppy hat that I loved for a few years but never wore. The water was like bath water, and the waves were high. I think my father lifted me on his shoulders. I never got bored of being there, though I imagine we didn't leave until dark. It was crowded, but I didn't care--it was part of the fun. Later on I went there with Chris. It was empty except for a handful of tourists. The water was cool and flat. It could have, must have, been a different place.

Chris says tomorrow is a holiday in the Philippines, so I suspect the karaoke will continue. I had a bad time of it last night, what with the singing, the heat, the mosquito--it all made me wonder at my weakness, especially while Chris slept so contentedly.

Anda is indeed a different type of place than the others we've been to so far. We appear to be more of a rarity here: Chris caught people surreptitiously taking our picture yesterday. There seem to be brownouts everyday, and the town's only internet cafe is without connection today--who knows why? It goes without saying that there's no wifi, though down the beach at the private resorts I suspect there's more the familiar tourist vibe.

I'm hungry but have no idea what time it is. Chris's watch went dead a week ago, and then mine the day before yesterday. We laughed ruefully and said no more $2 watches.

Evening at Anda Beach

Anda's all right: long beach, and the water shallow for a good ways, white sand. But it suffers from beachside karaoke, as did White Beach near Moalboal, and all the trash and noise of weekend beachgoers. I picked up three plastic bottles out of the ocean on our walk back to our hotel--but enough with the self-righteousness.

In the water we saw a sea snake, snails, white fish, crabs, starfish. At low tide the starfish began moving on their hundreds of teeth-like legs, then buried themselves in the sand, leaving nothing but a star-shaped imprint. The tiny black crabs, too, buried themselves as the water left, making soft popping and clicking sounds in the sand--their breathing?--as we walked over them. When it was still wet, they rolled up balls of sand that they appeared to be eating. We would only see this after they grew complacent enough to come out of their holes again. What a strange sight, to witness a swath of sand dotted in black slowly become white again as you step towards it--as if in a wave. Even 10 meters off the crabs were burrowing down in advance of us. And then to see them emerge again when the danger (us) had not moved at all. We watched them come out one by one, fighting off an irrational sense of creepiness.


The bad karaoke has started up again. The charm of out-of-tune singing, initiated so long ago by _My Best Friend's Wedding_, has worn off. During a brownout in the afternoon the proprietress of our hotel chuckled to herself and said, Yes, a break from the singing! I laughed with her, prompting her to continue: I really can't stand it, but it's business. That it is. And anyway, I'm sure she suffers more than we do.

Tagbilaran

Tagbilaran. Not even 10 pm yet, but dizzy with fatigue. It doesn't seem possible that just this morning we were in Malapascua, gazing at the starfish as the boat slipped away from shore. Small boat, big boat, small boat, van, taxi, ferry, walk, and now we find ourselves in Bohol's largest city. We opted to stay at Nisa Travellers' Hotel rather than push onto Anda. This place has the feeling of a dorm or hostel, except the rooms are private. Japanese and German tourists abound. Unsurprisingly we seem to be the only Americans again, not that anyone would guess what we are. Everywhere we travel the locals want to know where we're "really" from.

Days of moving from one place to the other are the worst part of traveling, especially when you know you have to fight off the tricycle/taxi/boat men and the hawkers of various snacks and souvenirs. And then the tiresome search for a place to stay, not sure when to stop looking, shy of negotiating, and led reluctantly by an insistent Filipino who brings you from place to place, and you don't know how to feel--is he being helpful or are you being had somehow? We never know how to disperse the cloud of followers who attach themselves as soon as we arrive, large bags in tow and looking sweaty and tired. They never give us time to think, always chattering on, pushing--I just need some time to think--so we say over and over again, "No, thank you, we don't need help" until they drop away one by one, and we're left alone, wondering if we might have needed them after all.

In Anda we will be without a home base--no dive shop at which to spend all our free time, chatting with the dive guides and other tourists. We'll be left on our own, just like anyone else. I wonder how it will be.

Leaving Malapascua

Our last day in Malapascua. As soon as we go, Chris will begin mourning the little crowd around the dive shop, where we spend all our free, non-eating time in sleepy indolence. Usually the French girl Jeanne is there, with the apprentice dive master I only know as Dish's brother. Also Rui, the instructor from Japan, sometimes Toto (our instructor), and Ting.

* * * * *
Yesterday evening, when we went out on our night dive, the water was perfectly still, as if we were motoring across the surface of a large drop of mercury. Tiny silver fish jumped out of the water in a cascade, disturbed by our boat. It reminded me of when we were in San Felipe and all those fish came flopping on the beach, so numerous the Spring Breakers started tossing them at each other. After our dive we came back in sparks of bioluminescence from the startled plankton, glowing their fear. The light at sea was matched by the starry sky, in which a swath of Milky Way was visible.

You seldom have days that you realize are nearly perfect at the time. Usually you aggrandize them later in a swoon of nostalgia. But today I will declare nearly perfect. Our boat trip to Gato Island, the dive (in which I sat on a sea urchin), the singing and card tricks and easy camaraderie at lunch, lunch itself (delicious chicken cutlets from our favorite restaurant, Kiwi's), snorkeling by the island in the afternoon, napping on the prow of the boat during our trip back. Tata told made-up stories, played his guitar, and jumped 15 meters off a cliff to entertain us. Later I heard one of the European tourists murmur, "He's something, isn't he?" in a tone of mixed irony, amusement, and perhaps admiration. And then I knew she saw him as just a specimen of the local culture, and she would never be one of the "group" in which I include Chris and myself, Jeanne, Yu, and all the staff of Sea Explorers.

But of course we have no claim--we're just passing through. Tomorrow will bring new guests, new friends, and we'll fade away, absolutely unmemorable. But Malapascua will stay in our minds and we'll grow old saying, Do you remember, and wondering how everyone is.

Diving

Fourth day in Malapascua. Chris is running me ragged with scuba courses again. Nevertheless, it gets better. Out early this morning to see the thresher sharks. This time only caught the silhouette of one before it disappeared into the murk.

Last Day in Moalboal

Our last day in Moalboal. It's gotten quiet here, though we're in the quiet part of the "beach," so maybe it's no different than usual. Apparently last night someone was stabbed outside our bathroom window. We followed the trail of blood all the way to our lunch restaurant, thinking it was just spilled paint or sauce. Then Javi and Malin told us about the knife fight at the discoteque next to our cottage. The poor man staggered quite a ways. Seeing the evidence of the violence during the daytime, scrubbed by the scuffle of tourists' slippers and the diffuse tropical sunlight, I had a sense of sinister unease, as if I were treading water and suddenly knew I could no longer touch the ground.

But life goes on and soon our heads were filled with the later-breaking news that the Singaporeans' laptops and iPad had been stolen by a 16-year-old boy who had climbed through the window of their cottage. Apparently the police had shot at him (later we found out that they were just warning shots into the air) while we were blissfully eating our lunch. Listening to the story--or, rather, now, writing about it--I realize what tourists we are, coming here protected by our relative wealth, traumatized when something happens to puncture our peaceful bubble. I'm not being sarcastic--the trauma is real, and I can only apologize for it and keep on fearing and looking out and feeling secretly grateful that I have what I have.


The sun has come back out, though in the shade it's still cool, and a small breeze stirs my damp hair. Small waves lick the coral, infinitely washing, cleansing. Tourists come, tourists go. Maybe nothing happens here after all. We're too many, we humans. Swarming ants, a scourge. And yet: an infant's precious fingers.

Flooding in Manila

It's been raining every day since we got back to Manila. It hardly ever stops, and sometimes it's so heavy it seems as if I'm standing next to a tropical waterfall. No wonder then that the city is flooding--they say 50% of Metro Manila is under water. We've been watching the news, which broadcasts images of streets turned into frothing rivers and laborers picking their way through thigh-high waters. Everything--the water, the sky, the homes--is that same muddy olive color. Earl's office is closed. Chris's cousin Allen's restaurant is closed. Government offices are closed. Private offices are closed. The rain keeps coming. They say it will stop on Thursday. Meanwhile we're stuck in Manila because the airport, too, is closed [this turned out later to be false information].


I've been sick the past few days--racked with fever, chills, muscle aches, phlegm-coated lungs. I wake up in the middle of the night with the delirious thought that some pernicious force is using my body to construct houses or to relieve the discomfort of old, wealthy Filipinos, because why else is my body so tired and sore, and why is there no end to or pause in the pain? This theory sounded perfectly reasonable in my head, but when I tried to explain it outloud to Chris, the right words weren't there, I only had a feeling and a picture in my mind, and everything shriveled up under that tone of mild bemusement Chris usually reserves for when he thinks I'm sleep-talking.

Back in Manila

Soon Earl will pick us up tot take us to the market. Because it's been raining, the air feels much cooler. None of us even think how the clouds make the world seem dismal--we're too busy feeling grateful for the relief from the heat.


I haven't seen Earl in a good long while. I know he'll ask me how I'm enjoying the Philippines, and I'll have to have prepared some answer because when I try to think of the true response to this question my mind throws back a large, flat blank. I will say something about the fruit, the comfort of San Lorenzo.