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.