Lost in Baler

This is where they filmed ‘Anaconda’, I was afraid one of them would joke. Amidst our silent passage the young driver JP said in earnest, “This is where they filmed Anaconda.”

We were walking the knee-deep waters of Cemento Bay in east of Baler, past an unwavering network of mangroves firmly planted underneath, through golden waves twinkling in the 3 p.m. sunlight then crashing against the rocky reefs. It was my first fashion shoot, I think. I’m not really sure. What I knew was that I was on assignment for coverage of the next day’s long board surfing competition in Sabang Beach, a ten-minute drive from where we presently were.

How romantic it is to be lost in an island!, I thought, almost stumbling over a crushed coral. I wouldn’t say that our group was a concentration of modern Filipino stereotypes, but there we were looking like the simplified sociology of a people from Manila: Ray, a warehouse worker; Renato, a seasoned service driver; Ivan H., a backpacking freelance photographer and independent filmmaker; Roel and Vangie, corporate managers with more than sufficient budget for media mileage, sponsorship, and public relations; Nykko, a freelance magazine photographer and full-time graphic artist; Cory, an Australian surfer, commercial model, and yoga instructor; Cory’s girl Raya, an international model, very skinny, fond of reading Coehlo; JP, the above-mentioned comedian who claimed to have had Japanese and Norwegian girlfriends; and yours truly, a writer frustrated with such “interruptive” out-of-town assignments.

Sunny April, I soon discovered from one of the locals, was already the start of the calm season. I wouldn’t have witnessed the fourteen-foot waves; none of that even after an eight-hour drive from the metro to one of the fastest-rising attractions in the Philippines! The trip had been rocky, literally and at best. Nykko and I were, uncomfortably, the only media invitees, and throughout the expedition, the convoy of which we were part was met by ominous mountains and their even more ominous cliffs, by unspoken fears of being held as urban hostages of the New People’s Army, and by the rigidity of courtesies common amongst strangers journeying together.

Upon our arrival at the destination, however, all unease was quickly dismissed. I saw that the Baler province of Aurora was a natural gem. The grandest vista of the Sierra Madre mountain range from a shore of sand; the youngest Filipino surfing prodigies; the brownest bodies I have ever laid my eyes on, of both sexes, and easily the most defined since my seeing the movie 300; the best second-language Australian, Japanese, and American speakers. Bob Marley, the Red Hot Chili Peppers and ska boomed all throughout the preparatory activities; it was against this background that I did my first round of interviews. Then damning whatsoever the itinerary had decreed (if there was one at all), Nykko and I were obliged only to join the photo shoot because so many people had been lining up for the volleyball games. And I had wanted to find out what modeling entailed aside from…uh, from being beautiful. But I got bored in the first five minutes of the shoot.

So I found myself a quiet spot in the most secluded part of the bay: on the farthest solid rock, in the society of a shy seashell. There I read Evelyn Waugh and E.L. Doctorow until the sun began to set.

When we drove back to the main beach of Sabang, I paid no heed to the bustle and excitement for the morrow. Instead I made good on my resolution to watch, at least once a year, the starry constellation spread across the black above us. I noticed, too, that by the streets there were no lampposts – only fireflies over our heads, fluttering brightly.

The New Wave in Baler

When you walk outside the humid, tranquil streets of Baler in Aurora province, you’ll notice that there aren’t any lampposts. Instead there are only buzzing bees by day, fluttering fireflies by night. But go farther along, past the village verandas and humble tourist inns, to the shores of the nearby sea – then prepare your senses to a whole new world pulsating with life.

Waves crashing against the rocky reefs; multi-coloured surfboards resting on brown muscular shoulders; children paddling the waters with their Styro boards; locals, several of them in dreadlocks, dressed in authentic Billabong shirts, Quicksilver board shorts, and Sanuk sandals; the long-legged beat of reggae and ska and Red Hot Chili Peppers beating harmoniously with the sound of the waves.

Welcome to one of the best surfing sites and most popular attractions in the Philippines. Sabang Beach.

This was the site of the Longboard Summer Jam, a surfing competition organized by the Aurora Surf Riders Association, Inc. (ASRAI), co-presented by Aloha Board Sports, and co-sponsored by Sanuk Sandals. The three-day event gathered over 200 local surfers – from Baler, La Union, Zambales, and Manila – as well as foreign professionals from Japan and Australia. It was also supported by a formidable network of sponsors that included major industry players like Southpoint Epoxy Surboards, Sticky Bumps, Dakine, Tribu Outdoors, Sector 9, Badfish and Billabong. Throughout the competition, all kinds of vacationing families, sightseers, media, and tourists were there to beat the heat.

Longboards are substantially more buoyant and easier to balance and propel than the traditional surfboard, enabling riders to increase their chances of catching the waves. “Basically the longboard is a type of surfboard ranging from 8 to 14 feet long,” said event director Tsuyoshi Takahashi. “So we judge the surfers based on their control, their techniques, their speed, positioning, balancing, and of course, their ability to execute maneuvers such as turning and carving.”

There were four divisions of heat in the Summer Jam: Grommets (for younger boys), Wahine / Women’s, Men’s Open, and the Invitational Men’s Open. The last division was well-represented by the country’s top talents, and they performed in front of international competitors like Luke Landrigan of the Billabong San Juan Surf School; Cory Wills, a professional Australian surfer and commercial model; and Marco Villareal, who himself gives surf tours and lessons all over the country. Here, I noticed, the big names were never hesitant to give the young guns some shine.

“Surfing is fast becoming a lifestyle in this country,” said Villareal. “You see a lot of kids eager to learn the sport at such a young age. The Aurora Province LGU has been very supportive, the market is increasing, and global trends are pointing towards greater interest in the sport.”

By global trends, we mean global warming . Climatologists and weather forecasters are saying that ocean levels will continue to rise – and that the waves will only get bigger.

Aside from the competition proper, the Summer Jam side activities highlighted the essence of the surfing culture and lifestyle. Yes, there were mandatory beach volleyball games and night parties. But don’t say “Boo, how Boracay!” just yet. There were also the enlivening celebratory bonfire, palo sebo (greased bamboo climbing), games that raffled off skateboards, and free surfing clinics, all of which serve to show that surfing is –by all means and to each rider, his own– the definition of fun.

“This is why we support regional activities like this,” explained Vangie Chua, Marketing Communications Officer for Sanuk Sandals. “Sanuk, after all, is the Thai word for ‘pursuit of happiness’. We want to embody a lifestyle that is at once outdoor, adventurous and laid-back.”

According to Mooney Castillo, Executive Vice President of Aloha Board Sports, Inc., “There is a culture that follows in surfing, and the Philippine community is very passionate about it. Because our surfers are very talented, we want to fine-tune their skills and support their climb to the international level; this, through our grassroots programs. And the Summer Jam is one of our efforts to do just that.”

Besides the fun to be had, the games to be played, and the trophies to be won is a camaraderie shared by beginners and veterans alike. And it’s as authentic as their Sidewalk Surfers, as passionate as the cheering volume of the Baler crowd.

Throughout the event, I saw that the surfers exchanged glances at their un-tanned ankles – “our trademark,” as they say. And those who own surfboards –be it top-of-the-line or second-hand– care for their possessions like jewelry: cleaning it, washing it, eyeing it meticulously for inspection after a ride. Surfers in their late teens are veterans and those a little younger are considered prodigies. Whatever their ages are, don’t be surprised if upon winning a Sector 9 skateboard or a Southpoint surfboard, one chokes through uncontrollable tears at his thank-you speech. These people know their stuff; more importantly, they value it like a most memorable wave.

Fifteen-year old Wilson Faraon, Aurora’s Grommet defending champion, is one of those who embraces the thrills of a surfer’s life. And he hasn’t forgotten who has helped him along the way. “I’ve only been surfing for a year and a half,” he said. “The local lifeguards were the ones who taught me. And then I was given free surfboards by an Australian named Bruce and a Japanese guy named Kazu. I’ll always remember these people who have helped me.” This just goes to show that in surfing, no player is bigger than the game. (Or is it that no rider is stronger than the wave? But you get my point.)

In a circle with the surfing community, on a stretch of sand, by the crashing waves of the sea and around a heap of woods constantly stoked by glowing embers of fire…I immediately felt I was part of something special. I felt I was part of The New Wave.

Dangwa

A rainy day isn’t the best time to visit the place, but if you’ve never heard of Dangwa – the flower market in Sampaloc – you cannot yet consider yourself a real “Manilenyo”. It is home to over fifty flower vendors, and a haven to the diverse daily crowd of visitors looking for the cheapest blooms to fit the occasion.

I’d be foolish to suppose myself a connoisseur in floral affairs, but when my friend, an event organizer, declared that the weekday night wouldn’t be complete without a trip to the brightest spot in Dos Castillas' most famous market, I had to oblige. And so should you.

Bring a camera if you wish (the colors will simply astound you), and take the liberty of posing beside remarkably cheap chrysanthemums, the price of which you may still haggle with the vendor. To my knowledge, all the shops are open 24-7. If you’re running on a really tight budget for those imported tulips, a trip to Dangwa is also your best bet. Dangwa’s flowers are, by nature, completely the opposite of today’s gasoline: there’s always a great supply; it’s affordable even in high demand; and the pricing won’t make you think twice.

For a guy like me, Dangwa comes in handy during the most sudden of dates. Indeed, it's the ultimate florists' corner, the romantics' favorite pit stop, that smells of La Trinidad, Davao, Cotabato, Thailand, Holland, and Ecuador; of the petals and twigs and pleasantnesses of elsewhere. But what makes Dangwa truly unique is that it represents what Manila is all about: creativity, color, cut-price commodities, and cherished traditions. Oh, and of course, the familiar chatter of Pinoy customers asking for “tawad, tawad po, wala bang tawad?”

Thank You, Iloilo

Iloilo City is a gritty city, particularly downtown. To me, it looks like certain parts of old Manila, the parts where I don’t usually go, like Escolta in Santa Cruz or Carriedo, where the dear old fountain is. While on a three-day, two night stay in the capital of the Western Visayan province of the same name, as I was taking an afternoon walk along the streets and sidestepping shards of beer bottles on an abandoned lot, the absurd thought occurred to me that if I were to live in this city, if I were to fit in here and survive for a long period of time or at least look like I’d be able to, I’d probably have to get myself a tattoo, try my best to look like a scoundrel.

Maybe it's not that absurd, for Iloilo seems to be that kind of place. Not that there isn’t anything beautiful that awaits visitors to the city –because, mind you, there’s plenty– but as I explored its downtown area on foot, the sun shining hard on its roads and, at best, only the mildest breeze stirring in the afternoon heat, there wasn’t much else that struck me harder and more profoundly than did its general - what? Artlessness? Lack of urbanity? And I have seen Philippine provinces with weather more agreeable and tropical than this one – sidewalks less littered, too. Cigarette butts decorated the pavements. Dogs strayed, ugly dogs. Faded tarpaulin posters, most of them from the last elections, covered the cracked walls of broken-down buildings. In front of one such building on Calle Real, I saw vendors selling fake Rolexes and blocking the entrance to a local pharmacy. Jeepneys, taxis, tricycles, and pedicabs staggered in all directions, heedless of jaywalking pedestrians and traffic lights on roads which, surprisingly wide though they were, looked nevertheless to be in surgery. At Plaza Libertad, a public park five minutes from the hotel where I was staying, a statue of Rizal stood almost irrelevantly, a marble monument of one of the great Filipino artists ignored by shirtless, brown-skinned boys playing basketball and crying foul in Ilonggo. I wondered if the churchgoers inside nearby Iglesia de San Jose de Placer could hear the fun they were having, what fun, shooting hoops to the soundtrack of spoken sermons and holy hymns, and with a view of one of those Spanish-era structures dilapidating in a way that texture photographers would find accidentally beautiful, along with Iloilo’s other ruins, churches, temples, bell towers, art deco stones, ancestral houses, government offices, and heritage buildings.

As soon as the young men finished a pick-up game, they resumed another. I took pictures; I took notes. They probably played basketball here until it was lights out, and perhaps days here weren’t done until after the closing hours of Plaza Libertad.

To tell you the truth, I had expected differently. But what? I can’t say for certain. When, from the gleaming Iloilo International Airport, I jumped into a taxi, I immediately noticed that the driver had not turned on his meter. He instead proposed a fixed fare, “four hundred pesos, sir,” revealing that he had a family of four to feed and that yesterday’s bread wouldn’t have been enough. Naturally, being from Manila, I didn’t budge.

“I didn’t know I was at home,” I remarked, not without the dripping sarcasm of suburban collar-poppers. “Manong, turn on the meter, please.”

His face was creased with lifelines and his mouth wouldn’t shut; he seemed just of the kind of swindling Filipino taxi drivers to which I am particularly averse. Passionately, he continued to argue. “I’ve been waiting five hours to get a passenger. Five hours! Since seven in the morning!”

“How’s that my fault?” I replied. “If you think you’re getting such a raw deal then change your job.”

It was later that afternoon, after no more than five minutes in my suffocating room at the City Corporate Inn on Rizal Street, that I headed out to walk. Walking, after all, is my greatest equalizer – or should I say tranquilizer?; it calms me down and keeps me from being irrational; and, since any ride would be too fast, a walk has also proven many times to be my richest source of material for writing (that is, if I am writing at all). How else can I describe Life but with the impressive memory of this papery-lipped old man sun-drying his fish out on the asphalt road in the middle of a March afternoon, howling his last price per kilo in a pleading vernacular that I can perhaps never politely condescend myself to understand, but at the sound of which I felt at once blessed and broken? And what else can I say about Love but that it occurred before me as a split-second kiss planted tenderly on the whitener-whitened cheek of a nursing student’s beloved in a jeep that was rumbling and heaving its way to who knew where – might it have been to the woefully commercial Robinson’s Place or the woefully kept University of Iloilo? And how else can I capture Loneliness than by saying it was what I felt at the sight of a middle-aged woman in Jollibee, by herself, all by her damned motherly self, auburn-dyed hair, tinted glasses, pearl earrings, a very 80s print skirt, velvet fingernails, and a faltering appetite, fiddling with and poking her seventy-nine-peso Chicken Joy as though she was performing a poultry autopsy? I would have come nearer as a friendly stranger and struck up a conversation, so that the world would seem to her less unkind, but no sooner than when I closed my book (My Name is Red) and stood up to do that did I notice that there were quiet tears that filled her eyes.

I was determined to avoid fast-food chains the next day and thus ended up breakfasting in Ted’s. If there’s anything, after all, for which Iloilo is nationally famous, it's Batchoy. Rumor has it that it was originally conceived by Chinese immigrants in the provincial district of La Paz. Somewhat like the city, the dish looked to me like a thoughtless muddle – of miki noodles, pieces of meat, and abused bits of garlic, pepper, leeks and pork cracklings, all deposited in a bowl of spiteful-looking broth.

Of course, it was good. I even slurped my soup.

Cicerone: Attractions Philippines in Rizal and Manila

The middle of last week was highlighted by a day-long immersion trip at the municipality of Angono in the province of Rizal, the so-called art capital of the Philippines, where scattered were a motley assortment of unheralded visual artistry and heritage sites. We drove to the modish Thunderbird Resorts for a photo shoot, but were more taken by the hotel’s convenient proximity to what no one stuck in Manila might ever discover: a breathtaking view of the lake, beside which were quiet –almost mute– fishing villages; the Petroglyphs Site Museum, where in 1965, National Artist Carlos “Botong” Fransisco stumbled upon a cave with Neolithic (3000 BC) engravings and which is now considered by UNESCO as one of the most endangered sites in the world (very Indiana Jones, archaeologically speaking); and imaginative figure painter Nemesio Miranda’s folkloric Arthouse.

Touring the artist’s atelier and visual gallery, we learned that the place was also a venue for workshops, competitions, and exhibits – legitimizing its moniker as the town’s “School for the Arts”. Then we dined in the evening at the Nemiranda Art Café Grill and Restaurant.

Before the weekend, I struck a brief yet very agreeable E-mail correspondence with Manila’s ultimate cicerone, Carlos Celdran. I asked him where I could find the “best little boutique bookseller” in Manila –the La Solidaridad, that is– because I was planning on spending the whole of Saturday acquiring a few good titles I was never able to unearth in any Powerbooks branch or ‘leading bookstore’. He gladly gave me the directions.

“But since you’re going to be in Manila anyway,” Carlos added, “go to Intramuros and check out the third floor of The Silahis Center (an emporium of arts, crafts, and antiques), where you’ll find Tradewinds Bookstore: great for Filipiniana stuff, and they have no idea how much anything costs.”

He was right. And I was more than thankful. I inserted Tradewinds in my itinerary, and it was where I first went, purchasing three very rare English-language books for a mere one hundred pesos: Lina Flor’s handwritten collection of light, humorous verses, Dilettante (it sells for thirty US dollars in online shops); Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero’s 4 Latest Plays; and a 1976 Regal Publishing copy of Boyhood in Monsoon Country by Maximo Ramos, considered the Dean of Philippine Lower Mythology. If I had had more in my wallet, it would have been a crazy spree. Still, with bigger change than expected, I bought a wooden “wet-and-wear” bracelet and a souvenir shirt with Philippine jeepneys on it. I felt like a tourist, and the feeling may have been accurate. I lingered about the cobblestone streets and quaint Spanish-era influences of the walled fortress long after I had finished two bottles of Sparkle –perhaps an hour just smoking and watching– and then finally stepped into a taxi on my way to the La Solidaridad.

The obscure bookstore, which was a stone’s throw from Robinson’s Galleria mall and located at the corner of Padre Faura and Adriatico streets, was better than advertised. That’s because it has never been advertised at all. The books were indeed expensive, although not more than what they should cost. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the maddened adventure of scouring the shelves, despite the realization that I was going to miss the grand Dunlop anniversary in Manila Hotel for which I wrote a painstaking script. But I only cared about that a little bit. A pretty curly-haired Caucasian, maybe an exchange student, joined me as she hunted for a couple of Penguin classics. We kept on sidestepping each other, muttering half-politely, "Oops, excuse me!" and "Oops, sorry!"

By the entrance, I noticed a magazine stand that displayed almost all of this year’s issues of The New Yorker, which cost 216 pesos each and which I believe will never, I mean never, be found elsewhere in the country. I didn’t get one due to financial constraints (next time, though!), but I did step out of the shop carrying three more titles: Lawrence’s Apocalypse; J. Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time; and a fresh copy of Sir Dean Francis Alfar’s Salamanca, which was awarded the 2005 Palanca Grand Prize for the Novel. There went my salary. For the next several weeks, I have therefore decided to be even less sociable than before. I will be uncompromisingly “booked”.

Thunderbird Resorts in Angono, Rizal.

A beautifully-lit evening.

Botong Fransisco's discovery: Neolithic carvings.

Nemesio Miranda's Arthouse.

Plaza Ibarra.

Intramuros, one of the most famous attractions in the Philippines.

The walled fortress.

Citizen Ed

Behind the green gate of an unassuming studio in a Makati side street, a small group of workers are welding pieces of what are shaping to be some avant-garde objets d'art. Beside them are blueprints, damp from the rainy mist of a cloudy afternoon, offering a peek at what the finished products would look like. Even on paper the pieces look intricate, remarkably detailed, and creative in a way that can only come from a gifted mind. “E.C.”, reads the signature on the sketches, betraying the identity of the self-effacing man responsible for all this.

It is almost impossible not to notice the art of Eduardo Castrillo, wherever and howsoever one finds it. Having taken the Philippine culture scene by storm forty years ago, the sculptor / jewelry designer has since produced an amalgam of works that are at once international, monumental, and social. His “Heritage of Cebu” at the Parian Park, more than one of the many truly important attractions in the Philippines, stands as a metaphor that speaks volumes of his contribution to the artistic development of the country: a world-class concept in contemporary art; a masterful (and massive) expression of creativity; and a glimpse of national history before the Filipinos' gaze.

Recently, Castrillo celebrated his history and his career in a series of exhibits which - in much the same prevailing manner as his works are located – ran at the UST Museum, Cultural Center of the Philippines, The Yuchengco Museum, and Choice Gallery Expressions at Jupiter Street. “It's a time to show what I've done in the past and an opportunity to show the transition I've underwent,” Castrillo explains at one of his shows. Even so, as he marked four decades of a celebrated career, this 1966 recipient of the Republic Cultural Heritage Award is quick to dismiss the notion that his temperament has significantly changed. “The controversies are still there,” he says with a smile. “The angst is still there. And the overpowering creativity remains.”

True enough, Castrillo can be found these days keeping himself busy as ever. Apart from diligently working on his various jewelry collections, Ed is continuously making and designing concepts to channel an intense drive to create. In fact, he is planning an 11-hectare theme park meant to become as a one-stop shop of all creations, a visual arts educational museum with replicas of famous works as the “Mona Lisa” or “Guernica”.

The park concept is one that obviously requires plenty of time, space, and finance (not to mention painstaking government relations and tedious international research). But if there is one man who continuously garners success by overstepping the limits imposed by rationality, convention and politics, Castrillo is that man. 

Despite never having received formal art education (he majored in advertising in UST but maintains having carried on his studies idly), Ed has continued to impress - nay, astound - art critics, collectors, peers, designers and students. With the valiance, variety and vision of his work, sometimes even the well-studied scholar faces the dilemma of which category to ascribe it.

“Critics often have trouble categorizing my work because most of them are apprehensive of movement,” Ed notes. It must be noted, though, that this is no trouble for him, because he believes that “for an artist to be progressive, one must not conform. After all, my goal is to bring change and steer inspiration, to create a new path of artwork in the Philippines.

“It's for the country to have the proper heritage it deserves.”

Among those which he has bequeathed to the sculptural landscape are the “Martyrdom of Dr. Jose P. Rizal” in Luneta, “Bonifacio Shrine” at Manila City Hall, “Our Lady of Remedios Shrine” fronting the Malate Parish, “The People's Power Monument” along EDSA, and “The Spirit of EDSA” at RCBC Building in Makati. But there is great injustice in being bound to mention only a few bullets in his chronology of work, for Castrillo is a multi-awarded, internationally-commissioned and widely-admired artist – the most progressive, perhaps, of our time.

More than bringing home the awards and carving for himself a guaranteed place in the annals of Philippine art history, Castrillo has also time and again served as “a Filipino prize-fighter” and “a citizen to humanity”. He explains that “I owe a great deal of expressing myself to God and country”, and it is this steady notion upon which Castrillo dutifully carries out his artistic vision. He is well-known for the practice of donating his public monuments for selected communities; as partners in the production of this art, these communities answer for the cost of materials and labor. To Ed, there are few things as imperative as the accessibility of art. “Although art has often been overshadowed by politics and the economy, therefore blurring our understanding and appreciation of it,” he remarks, “art should still address all, including the masses. If it has to be exclusive, it will be exclusive to the thinking man.”

As has been prevalent throughout his works, Ed always offers a realistic and penetrating insight into the life of our time and of our forefathers'. He is an acute observer of society, and will invent something to forge a lasting expression of what he has seen or experienced. (“If, for example, I am depicting a warrior, I should depict it in its own rage – in its own reality.”)

And it is in this light that, more than just noticing it, we begin to understand Castrillo's work. Here we are talking of an artist who has been all over the world with international shows; who may, from commissions abroad, earn more than enough for two lifetimes; yet who nevertheless chooses to toil in educating the Filipinos about the power and potential of one's own mode of art. This is why, after having rubbed elbows with prominent foreign designers, painters and artists, he proudly proclaims what he has learned: “That Filipinos are one with all of them,” Ed says unflinchingly. And this is why, in being asked to name an artist whom he most admires, Castrillo diplomatically refuses to acknowledge a single one.

“Of course, I admire a lot of artists for their talent and good touches,” Ed explains. “But with this gift, I am carrying something bigger than myself; I am carrying national pride. I must challenge the Picassos and the Michelangelos and the other artists of the world, because I believe that the brilliance of the mind doesn't have any racial boundaries.”

Indeed, there is for Castrillo no other hero than truth. As the rest of us look up (literally and otherwise) to his sculptures, we are reminded of a man who, in opening new avenues for his hero, has become one himself.

Anilao Art

Recently, my eager yet perfectly illegitimate representation of the sports magazine Action and Fitness brought me to Batangas – a four-hour ride and many nipa huts away from the city streets of Manila. (And certainly a site of a number of attractions in the Philippines!) As the unofficial photographer of the publication for the event "Caltex Coastal Cleanup" (it was International Coastal Cleanup Day), I’d been led to the lush but not lavish Aquaventure Reef Club Resort. My hotel room was called “Computer Room” for a reason outside that which has to do with computers, because it didn’t have anything remotely electronic outside of the mosquito killer laid out beside my bed.

Since I and the most of the media partners weren’t certified scuba divers, we all gathered to form the team that wouldn’t get to go underwater. We were assigned instead to pick up trash from the site’s rocky shores. And it is, I tell you, the most unbelievable thing in the world to be picking up trash from wet sand while the rest of the people dove to explore the beauty beneath the crashing aquamarine waters. I was part of the Juniors Team that was benevolently allowed to join the league of pros. I even discovered several gems: a stray racing shoe, a rubber pork chop, a hairy coconut husk, a message-less bottle that spoke volumes of how interesting the mission was for team paparazzi.

The night, of course, served as nothing less than an occasion for vindication, and for mingling alternately with tanned pretty Filipinas and free-flowing Jägermeister (“Achtung wild!”). Wearing my inappropriately foreign white floral exotic shorts (which would not have gone unnoticed in an otherwise sober atmosphere), I joined new friends and divers in coughing out a chorus of cheers and plumes of cigarette smoke.

Even though at the end of the day, I got no wetter than having a pack of Marlboro Lights soaked by a boat ride and inadvertently plummeting like a fool into a deep muddy puddle of garbage, sand and water (“for photography’s sake”, I shrugged the embarrassment off with artless nonchalance), I must say the experience was happier than the event itinerary suggested. I hadn’t been allowed to dive, but for the name of advocacy and all things aqua, I nevertheless had a splashing good time.

The Outback Cafe and Carmelino's Grill

I don’t know how I ended up eating in two unassuming restaurants last week, but I’m very glad anyway that I did.

The Outback Café in DOT-accredited Swagman RPL Hotel Manila should be one of the best and most authentic Australian cuisine specialty restaurants in town. It’s not exactly first-class. Located on A. Flores Street at Ermita, right next to a number of Philippine attractions in the capital of Manila, the place feels rather like a pub in a foreign country. Very cozy. Subtle lighting. Great location. When I went there, I saw a nice little poster of Steve Irwin (who must be a hero in his country), a huge crocodile replica beside the versatile bar, two big-screen TVs playing The Australian Open, and a two-member band playing the requests of a thick, expat-filled crowd. There’s also free Wi-Fi Internet access for those who have to send E-mails while knifing away at the fabulous steaks.

Not that they serve dishes exclusively from Australia; if you prefer your breakfast, lunch, or dinner the Filipino or American way, then the extremely courteous waitresses would be happy to serve you. Whatever you order, ask for the traditional HP brown sauce – I don’t know why it’s not popular here in the Philippines, but it’s fruitier than A1 – and, of course, for a bottle of your favorite wine.

The other surprise treat I got was a Friday afternoon snack at Carmelino’s Grill, one of those hidden joints near the domestic airport. Less crowded than, say, Razon’s or Dreamhaus in Taft Avenue, the café is a perfect place to say your goodbyes to friends and family leaving on a jet plane. Or to have a cup of brewed before checking in at the airport. Or to just have a one-of-a-kind breakfast. I’m not familiar enough with the menu, but they do have a delectable array of fruit shakes and a variety of Filipino merienda choices.

Which new unadvertised places have you been to lately?

Notes from Mindanao, Pt. II

(Read Pt. I here at Attractions Philippines)

Day Two

7:28 AM: We start the day at a more reasonable time. But it’s still only seven. And I’m not a morning person. It’s going to be a long day. We’re still in Ipil, Zamboanga Sibugay. Bob and Evelyn are surveying the Mindanao map at a separate table in the yellowish hotel lobby. I’m staring at a Nokia mobile phone, left on a stool; I’m staring in a way that non-morning persons are wont to do: without purpose. Someone was charging it. That someone comes in, and he’s wearing a United Nations t-shirt. He retrieves his phone and drives off in a red pickup truck with United Nations stickers on its doors. Bob, too, watches all this happen and says, “See, if I stole that phone, the wronged owner would still have pointed at the Filipino guy here. I’m American. Evelyn is British.” Bob is right. I’m Filipino, the kind of person your mother warned you about.

10:01 AM: We’re in Dipolog City, Zamboanga del Norte. The so-called “Bottled Sardines Capital of the Philippines”. Minutes earlier Bob got rid of the vile thing called Dodol. Left it at the gas station. Well, I volunteered and left the thing under someone else’s car. The snack was successful in looking like a pile of shit. I relished the feeling of doing something obnoxious. It was just like that of a teenager.

Then we drove until we got here, here being Dipolog’s foreshore boulevard. Why, of course there’d be sardines in this city. I can smell it in the open air.

It is a lovely place, I must admit that. On one side of the boulevard there are al fresco seats under summery parasols that accommodate the food kiosk customers. Kind of like what I’d expect to see in Florida, except there’s fish instead of fruit. Not that I’d ever been to Florida. On the other side, the waves of the Sulu Sea crash against the esplanade. Surfer’s waves, maybe stronger – crashing, then ebbing, then crashing again, the water lapping up the concrete shore in a loud calming rhythm. A number of locals are casting their fishing poles into the water. The men are wearing sweaters and baseball caps. The wind is even stronger and cooler today than yesterday in Parang.

12:21 PM: Done with lunch. Went to Chowking, the one inside the mall here at gritty Osamis City, Misamis Occidental. We all ordered Spicy Beef Chao Fan with spring rolls on the side. Evelyn finished the rice, which was a minor surprise.

2:31 PM: Seem to be stuck here at the RoRo terminal. Restlessness boiling within me like water in a cauldron. We’re waiting for the ferry that will take us to Lanao del Norte. I mean to say, we’re still waiting. On the way here, I noticed that the tricycle drivers have had their rest schedules painted on the back of their vehicles (“Day Off: Tuesdays”). Very peculiar. It must be some kind of traffic scheme and not a God-then-rested-on-the-seventh-day sort of thing.

“Bob,” I mutter from the backseat, “what does RoRo stand for? And can I bring my laptop with me?” I also wonder about security in the parking area. It turns out that RoRo stands for “roll-on/roll-off”, an arrangement in which the ferry is designed to carry wheeled cargo – meaning the car, meaning the car with all our belongings, meaning even cars with frightfully dumb passengers from Manila.

3:47 PM: Happiness is a thirty-minute ferry ride from one island to the next. Osamis to Lanao del Norte. The wind is blowing furiously, and storm clouds have gathered above, forming a crown of what looks like thick, slightly used cotton buds licking the mountaintop. I am astonished by how lovely all this is. I’m actually on a RoRo boat! I don’t mind that the splashes of water from both above and below are slapping my face wet. Somehow I feel like I have been taken back to the best parts of childhood. I promise myself to report the experience to mother.

7:33 PM: Then another long drive. This time, from the seaport all the way to the former capital of Lanao del Norte, which is Iligan City. It was raining all the way. Bob, Evelyn, and I are now inside Gilee’s Café on San Miguel Street. Cozy. Candle light. Paintings and maps of Italian seaside communities on the wall. The soft and teasing pitter-patter of drizzle on the roof. Outside, groups of young and energetic Iliganons walk the lamp-lit asphalt streets and take advantage of the numbered cool summer nights.

Our group is rather interracial, and gathers a few of Bob’s friends in the city: freelance photojournalist and coffee connoisseur Bobby Timonera, French-American Marc de Piolenc and his wife Sharon, and of course Gilee. Gilee is Italian, I think. Or French. Doesn’t matter. Both will work for me. Later someone points out to me that he’s Swiss. Of course I don’t say it doesn’t matter. The Persian kebab pasta, served by Gilee himself, is all kinds of delightful.

I’m starting to get sleepy, but I manage to catch tidbits of conversations on, among other things, American Idol, homosexuality, driver’s license pictures, Iligan’s many famous waterfalls, the city’s thriving steel and cement industries, and the challenges expats have to deal with while living in as misunderstood an area as Mindanao. Such scattered talk, and for me it feels quite right to think it European.

11:56 PM: The taste of coffee lingers. I can still taste it. I’m writing alone in my Oriental-style Wi-Fi-ready P450-a-night room at Famous Pension House and I’m wide awake because of that coffee. After dinner at Gilee’s Café, Bobby took our group to his exquisitely furnished Iligan City home. This guy, apart from having arranged in his parlor a library that betrays his intelligence and good taste, also has all delicious sorts of coffee to offer his guests. Monk’s Blend from Bukidnon? Critically acclaimed beans from Sagada? Yemeni? Civet? We settled for something. I don’t remember what it was. Well, I didn’t need perking up. I didn’t want perking up.

Yet I ended up with coffee and cupcakes. Falling asleep seems unlikely now. That’s a particular danger. I’m in the blessed islands of Mindanao and I might not be able to close my eyes again. Or, at the very least, I might not be able to close my eyes for the rest of this night.

*** Attractions Philippines editor’s note: Want to share your own thoughts and stories on things to do in the Philippines, places to see, fruits to eat, cities and provinces to visit? Just E-mail us at Attractions.Philippines at Gmail dot com or send us a Twitter tweet via @attractionsPI. Thanks for visiting Attractions Philippines!

Notes from Mindanao

Today I found and opened a notebook I’d taken with me on a trip two years ago to Mindanao – a many-paged notebook, reporting a (more or less) three-day road trip. I didn’t take pictures. I remember that I’d hardly had any pocket money, and that I’d initially feared for my life.

Mindanao is the easternmost island group in the Philippines, just after Luzon and Visayas. It’s made up of a bunch of smaller islands, and it makes the world headlines frequently enough as a place that, sadly, continues to be disturbed by a number of extremist and militant Muslim groups. No one would dispute that Mindanao is a beautiful place, but at the time I was worried less about scenery than about having my name on a news ticker.

Reading these notes again, however, I remember too how I’d had the absolute time of my life. Fear, once it proved itself to be unnecessary, did not threaten to leave its traces on the pages. The notes are politically undisturbed and brave. I’m not always a brave man, and that’s why I hope you welcome these notes I now share.

Day One

4:07 AM: Sunday morning. Sun hasn’t risen. Just accepted invitation to go on a three-day road tour of the island of Mindanao with Bob (American friend) and Evelyn. Groggy and slightly uncomfortable in Bob’s car, a Nissan Adventure. Nissan Adventure: an appropriate vehicle for this trip. More sleepy than scared or excited, though. At least right now. Should be an eye-opener, especially for this Manila rat. A Kerouacian journey! Nasty motorcycle accident on Diversion Road here in Davao City, or the edge of it. Bloody helmet. Metal parts littered across the road. I can’t see the driver.

So awhile ago Bob played Chicago. Now it’s Jimmy Buffett. Na-na-na, na-na-na. Margaritaville.

I need coffee, even if it’s durian coffee.

7:31 AM: We’re in Cotabato – already. North? Or is this South Cotabato? Or Cotabato City? I’m not sure, but when was I ever sure. My first impressions of this province have been caricatured by news reports and editorials and scenes on TV and in the papers. Bombings, episodes of rebellion. Violence. Murders. Armed Muslims in intimidating skullcaps and color-coded scarves.

Seriously? This is Cotabato? Doesn’t seem as dangerous now, or as unfriendly, as its general reputation. On the contrary! Au contraire! I must learn more stylish-sounding French phrases. All the fruit vendors along the road smile. They’re pretty infectious. I wish more Filipinos would smile like that, and not just as a welcome to foreigners.

It’s so beautiful here. So beautiful, I feel like I haven’t been living. We saw the City Hall building awhile ago: very nice and mansion-y, but what do I know about architecture? The only fears I nurture, passing through, are: Bob running over these cute chickens that hurry funnily across the mountainous road (“Watch out for that chicken!”); the orthopedic implications of unhinging my jaw at the length of one of the least heralded - yet one of the most gorgeous - attractions in the Philippines, the Rio Grande de Mindanao; my committing faux pas in encounters with surprisingly friendly Muslims. Can I never talk to them about religion? Will they get offended if they see me make the Sign of the Cross? They’d probably be more tolerant.

The scenery here is luscious and green, like a golf course, with no holes, stretching to infinity.

10:18 AM: After rolling past places like Pikit, Pagcawayan, Sultan Kudarat, and a long line of what should be the tallest coconut trees I’ve ever seen in my life (and I’ve seen a lot of them), we arrive at Parang. Parang is in Maguindanao. Bob says something about this being the site of Camp Abubakar, former headquarters of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF). Evelyn and I are too busy looking at the crowded wet market. It’s like everyone who lives in this place works in this market. It’s like a real provincial neighborhood and everybody knows everyone’s name. I wouldn’t really know how to describe it. A man in fatigues stands in the middle of the road, directing the flow of the traffic, even though there isn’t much of it. He makes Bob roll down the driver’s window for a quick check. (“Americanos!” No, not really, the guy doesn’t ask a single question.)

On a muddy street (there’s a slight drizzle), hoards of vendors are sun-drying fish and plying their trade in Bisaya. Well, it sounds like Bisaya. Rata-tata, rata-tata. Evelyn says he can’t distinguish it from my Tagalog anyway. Mine is also rata-tata, rata-tata.

We find more vendors when we stop five minutes later at a cemented bay walk that fronts the Moro Sea, across which we’re offered a glimpse of the hills of Lanao del Sur. Manila seems so far away. The wind is making my clothes dance. I’m flying! And someone’s fishing.

1:40 AM: Bob missed the Jollibee in Pagadian, Zamboanga del Sur’s capital city. Yes, we're somehow in Zamboanga del Sur now. I’m starving. I should’ve opened my mouth when I saw the sign. Jollibee, McDonald’s, it doesn’t even matter. The next civilized commercial area is in Ipil, Zamboanga Sibugay province, over a hundred kilometers away. At least two hours! It’s rather amazing that hamburger chains have reached these far-flung areas. Well. I must be so narrow-minded I’ve always thought they existed only in Manila. In the meantime, I make do with carrot muffins and raisin-spotted banana biscuits, courtesy of Bob’s wife, Feyma. She sent us off with these home-made delights. Lovely: there’s always so much “home” in home-made.

Bob, meanwhile, is eating something called Dodol, which is a brown, thick, and sloppy Muslim delicacy. He bought it from a Muslim lady with a sort of mobile kitchen cart on the side of the road. The thing is supposed to be akin to toffee. Dodol. Frankly it looks like shit. Shit in a green plastic bag on a dashboard of a Nissan. (Bob will eventually dump the leftover in Dipolog City.) The three of us have a terrible time containing our laughter.

6:16 PM: In Ipil. Having my Jollibee fix. Finally! Two-piece Chickenjoy with extra rice. Looking out the window, I notice that there are motorbikes everywhere. Pedicabs. Festive, many-colored buntings that hang from telegraph wires. (What is this, Saigon?) And, on the sidewalks, barbecue grills with pork intestines and chicken feet on sticks. Yummy. The rising smoke mingles with the falling rain. I come from Manila where these sights aren't really rare, but everything here feels strange and seems beautiful, as in a pleasant dream. Like I’m in a Kazuo Ishiguro novel set in the tropics or something. Malleable. That’s the word I’m looking for. Malleable.

No place to sit down for a cup of coffee, though. Even Julie’s Bakeshop has run out of sachets of three-in-one. I’m absolutely stunned there’s even a Julie’s Bakeshop in here.

The men and women outside are looking at Bob and Evelyn with such curiosity! They haven’t even laid eyes on my, ahem, fuchsia shirt (pink being politically incorrect). I feel invisible now. Joe! Joe! It’s a kind of general welcome cry. For foreigners. If every Filipino can be called Juan then every foreigner can be called Joe.

7:20 PM: It’s still raining. Soaked now. I have like two t-shirts left. I couldn’t even find an umbrella in the only mall. Oh, and someone just tried to talk to me in Bisaya. I was at once flattered and stumped. Funny, because among the three of us, I’m probably the one with the vaguest idea of where we are. I can’t say someone else from my university has been here, which should make me proud of my inability to decline. Not that I have a clue where this municipality is on the map. I’m the one asking the white guys for directions!

I do know where we’re staying for the night. Metro Ipil Mandarin Hotel. Inexpensive, such as hotels in Manila never are.

The hotel staff at the lobby offers me the room service menu. I ask if they have caldereta. Not available. Crispy pata? Not available. Adobo? Not available. It turns out they can prepare only salty fried chicken. With mounds of rice. And cheap ketchup, the kind that’s sweet and where you can see the black ground pepper.

I order anyway. Afterwards I leave the dishes just outside the front door, because that’s what they told me. They’ll just pick it up. As I do just that, I notice a decaying piano in the middle of the third-floor hallway. Goosebumps. Maybe this is The Unconsoled or something.