I'm Moving!

Hey friendly readers,

I'm growing up and cleaning up my act. I'm movin' on to new places.
I'll no longer be posting to this blog.
Please find me here { http://www.atravelerscharm.blogspot.com }
You can find all your favorite posts from Q4I there, along with brand-spankin-new posts about love, life, and foreign lands.

See you there!
April

Long Hair, Leather Chairs, and Magical Hands in Iwaki

This post is a little bit about the small daily obstacles I face as a foreigner in Japan, a little bit about the comfort of being in the hands of a trusted friend in a foreign home-away-from-home, but mostly about a posh, soothing, sensual hair experience.

A year and a half after living in Iwaki, I’ve somewhat gotten used to the cozy half-anonymity that comes with being an ex-pat in a small city. Despite this, I still have moments of self-consciousness for not quite knowing how to do the simplest grown-up tasks to take care of myself. Included in that (very long) list is knowing how to call in a for a hair appointment. For the past several months, I let my hair grow out into a shapeless tangled mess to put off stumbling through phone conversation with a complete stranger in my broken Japanese and mumbling, American-accented babble.

Eventually, even I had to admit that it was time to do something about this hair. I saved up my pennies and started thinking about how to make this phone call. I spent a two days procrastinating on asking someone for help on how to make an appointment for a haircut with a preferred stylist. I spent another three days procrastinating on finally making the dreaded, awkward phone call.

Ring, ring.

Voice on the other line: Hello, Mod’s Hair.

Me: Uh, hi, I want to make an appointment…

Voice: OK, for when?

Me: …is this Suzuki-san? Hi! This is April!

Suzuki-san: Oh, April! Long time no see! Wow, your Japanese has gotten better!

Me: Long time no see! No, no, not at all!

Suzuki-san: When would you like to come in? …

To my delight, Suzuki-san, the man who always cuts my hair, answered the phone, and remembered me. He knows that he’s the only one who does my hair in this town. Sadly, I didn’t get a chance to use my newly learned word (“担当, in charge of).

Back home, I’d sometimes spend as little as 20 minutes at some budget haircut place, pay as little as $10 to as much as $20 for a cut, no shampoo, no blow dry, no nothing. The hustle and bustle of these shops are no different from a suburban supermarket—bunch of mom-aged white ladies in yoga pants, twittering about their kids and gossiping about celebrities on the front pages of trashy tabloid magazines. Growing up in the capital of Suburbia, San Diego—Chula Vista—these types of haircut experiences was all I knew.

Flash forward to Mod’s Hair in Iwaki (and Tokyo, Paris, and London, according to their fancy black and white logo). I walk into the sleek shop and am greeted at the door by a well-groomed assistant and stylist. He takes my bag and coat, greets me by name, and escorts me to small, individualized cubby of a waiting area containing a chair and a small café-type of table. On the table is a stack of fashion and hairstyle magazines, which I suspect Suzuki-san handpicked for me from their library of hair literature. Suzuki-san is busy, so I entertain myself with the magazines. Nearby, a teenaged girl is sitting at a small coffee table in her own waiting area cubby, looking into a mirror, tousling her hair, and flipping through a different set of magazines.

After a few minutes, the assistant escorts me from my table to a changing room, where I slip into a black robe. From there, he walks me to my favorite chair in Iwaki—and probably in the world.

This black leather chair is where all that’s good, peaceful, and sacred in the world come together to join for a masterful experience. I take my seat at the throne; he daintily drapes a fluffy bath towel over my legs for decency; he lowers the back of my cushy seat until my head is perfectly positioned over the sink and my neck is comfortably nestled in the neck rest.

The limitations of my writing ability hinder me from adequately describing what happened in the next 20 minutes, but I’ll try my best. He turned on the jet hose to release warm water at just the right pressure—just hot enough, just strong enough. I felt my entire body relax, going almost completely slack. He softly asked me if the water was too hot, if I was comfortable, and if there were any adjustments he needed to make. I could barely answer; I was already lost. He soaked my hair and massaged my head. Now and then, he changed my position by lifting me by the base of my head. He lathered my hair with musky, spicy-smelling shampoo—nothing fruity or flowery, which I was grateful for. When he was all done and my hair was rinsed out, he did it again: a second round of shampoo.

Next came the conditioner. And then oils. And more hot water. And finally, a soft, but firm, towel dry.

As if that wasn’t enough, he then led me to another leather seat, this time in front of an accordion of mirrors. I was ready to get down to business and have my hair be hacked away, but he had other plans for me. He squeezed something out of a white bottle labeled “head massage” and started kneading it into my scalp. I closed my eyed. He pressed and mini-karate chopped different areas of my skull—I felt other parts of my body tingle as he circumnavigated around my crown. The left side of my head seemed to activate nerve endings in my arms; the right side sent shivers to my legs, the base of my head sent my neck and back into submission. It was like a hair salon version of acupuncture therapy or palm reading, where the lines on your hand branch out to mysteriously connect with seemingly obscure appendages of your life. And he didn’t stop there; he worked on my next, my shoulders, what he could reach of my back… all while I sat upright in that leather chair!

At the end, he said “otsukaresamadeshita”, a formal greeting reserved for the end of a long day which roughly translates to ‘thank you for your hard work, you must be so tired’.

Amazing.

And finally, finally, I was ready for the haircut. Suzuki-san worked his magic on me, all the while chatting with me about all my friends, my latest travel adventures, and work, all of which he somehow remembers on his own. He even remembered when exactly I was last in for a haircut (about 7 months ago) and what haircut I got. I watched him snip and measure and chat with a faint smile on his lips and in his eyes. This is a man who is good at and loves his job, I thought to myself.

Two hours after I walked into the doors of the salon that evening, Suzuki-san and his assistant took turns blow drying and styling my hair. When they finished, they brushed me off to get rid of fallen hairs on my robe and face and escorted me to the changing room once again, where they had hung my coat and prepared a box of facial tissues and lint roller for me to clean up anymore small, stray hairs. I got dressed and stole one last glance at the vanity. I emerged from the changing room and saw that my bag was waiting for me at the reception desk. After this myriad of services with small touches of thoughtfulness, Suzuki-san showed me the invoice—a brilliantly modest price of $42USD. I paid, all the stylists in the store bade me farewell and thanks, and Suzuki-san walked me to the door.

He stood at the doorstep, asking me to take care and waving goodbye until I was no longer in sight.

So went my experience with my twice-a-year friend in my temporary home, Iwaki, with Suzuki-san at Mod’s Hair.

Monday Chilly Blues, Japanese Lessons, and Indian Curry

Sakurako and Momoko passed out after a long day of school, dinner, language lessons, and entertaining Brian and me.

I've somehow neglected to update on my day-to-day in Japan, so here's an attempt at it.

Tuesday, January 28th, 2014. I'm bundled up in a heat-tech long-sleeved shirt, a fleece sweater, and a fleece blanket-hybrid-poncho, pajama (or pyjama) pants, and wooly socks. I'm sitting in mine and Brian's cluttered living room, soaking in the winter sunlight. I'm home because I'm sick--some classes at some of my school were actually shut down because the flu and noro virus is going around. No signs of diarrhea for me yet--I may have lucked out and only have the flu instead of the notorious 'noro'.

Today's not a very typical day, so I'll write about yesterday.



It was a drag to wake up and get ready yesterday, Monday morning, partly because the apartment was hovering above freezing temperatures and partly because we had gotten in late the night before after a full weekend in Tokyo.

Nonetheless, ever since the string of teachers leaving at one of my high schools where I work, I've felt a greater sense of responsibility to my students as one of their few English teachers left. I mustered up a sprinkling of will power to get my morning momentum going: jump out from under the layers of thick blankets, slip on my slippers, pull on a sweater, brush my teeth, make coffee, eat cereal. Get dressed (settle for somewhat presentable office attire), shove a plastic bag containing odds and ends of leftover foods to for a junk-food ridden lunch into my backpack, grab my phone and charger, frantically lace up my shoes, kiss Brian goodbye, run out the door, and dash down four stories of staircases toward my bus stop to catch my bus.

So goes the "morning rush" in my household.

I try to ride my bike to work as much as possible... though "try" is a term I grant myself generously. When I was back home, I mentioned to my uncle my bike commute (without including how often--er, seldom--I actually do so). "Wow!" he said. "I always wished that I could bike to work and experience what it's like." That sent me for a guilt trip real quick.

Rather than dwell on the guilt of not taking advantage of my healthy and cost-saving opportunity to bike to work, though, I want to use his statement as a reminded of an important lesson: that sometimes, the things that we complain about or don't want to do, are what others out there are wishing they could do.

He also dreams of one day being able to teach English abroad. When I'm not feeling challenged, when I think about all the other jobs I "could" have, the money I "could" be making, or the other places where I "could" live, I start to lose perspective on what a great opportunity I do have, how much disposable income I do have, and all the places I've been. I'm beginning to outgrow this new experience--this challenge--of moving to Japan to teach English, but I can't lose sight of how thankful I am to have had this opportunity to come to such a challenge and learn so much so fast that now, almost two years later, I'm ready to move on.

I arrived at school a few minutes early and cheerily greeted the few teachers in my secondary staff room (the staff room for the part-time teachers, non-homeroom teachers, and assistant teachers) who were already there, ready to start the day. About 8 seconds after I entered and sat down, one of the teachers with whom I'm closest to entered the room.

"Have you heard the emergency?" he seemed to be addressing the whole staff room, but after half a second, I realized he was speaking English so he could only be talking to me.

"No, what's up?" I always speak to him much more casually than I would speak to any of my other coworkers. He lived in America from the time he was 10 years old until he was 16 years old. He speaks English fluently but confided to me that the English half of his mind and mouth is that of a 16 year old boy. Based on his love for "Pulp Fiction" and his constant swearing, I take his self-observation to be true.

"The other English teacher's daughter is got the flu, so she has to stay home to take care of her. She asked me to assist you with teaching second period."

"Oh, OK. Thanks! There's not much to do, we're just practicing for their interview test."

This seemed to put him at ease. As a "san-nensei" (high school third grade, thus, graduating students) teacher, he's overworked as is with preparing the students he's worked with since they entered high school three years ago for high school graduation, university, and the rest of their lives. The last thing he really needed on his plate was to be sitting in on my "ichi-nensei" (first grade) English class.

My teaching schedule is different every single day. I'm supposed to have a somewhat stable class schedule for the school year--some students have my class for 50 minutes once a week, others once a month, others once in the school year. However, with teachers getting sick, test schedules, students getting sick, and everything else that happens in life, I usually have to make do with showing up at a different school each morning, finding out what grade and and which classes I'm teaching, and stringing together a set of English-related, culture-related, or holiday-related activities. My classes are sometimes as small as 6 students. Today, on a day when every other high school first grade English classroom teacher was out sick, I was in charge of teaching a class of 120 students (three classes combined) in the lecture hall.

If you're a teacher from back home, or even ever attended public school back home, you would know that 120 students plus one assistant teacher plus one substitute teacher is a surefire recipe for disaster. Add to that, the fact that the students haven't had a stable English teacher all year. And of course, add in the fact that I hardly speak Japanese... Perhaps you get the picture.

First period was a prep period, so I did my best to prepare for the unexpected.

Eventually, that bell for second period rang, and so came the expected unexpected. We couldn't find the computer that we usually use for PowerPoint slides, only one of the three classes of students who were supposed to show up to the lecture hall showed up at first; one students ran out to grab one of the other classes, and the third and final class of 40 students finally showed up 15 minutes into the class period. The projector wasn't working, students forgot to bring their handouts from last class, students were roaming the lecture hall not knowing where to sit...

But, luckily, that all was the worst of it. One valuable lesson I've learned from teaching in Japan is that classes and --most importantly--classroom cultures come in all shapes and sizes. These group of students are like a mob of mini, over-achieving university students. More than 90% of students turn in all their homework more than 90% of the time. More often than not and, frankly, to my dismay, classes are pin-drop-silent, despite it being a communication class.

All this in mind, do I have textbook-perfect lessons each day? Are my students' tests scores anything to brag about and reason for patting myself on the back, finally resting assured that I, too, did my homework, knowing that with perfect conditions I am, indeed, the perfect teacher?

No, no, no, no, no. And no.

It's teaching me in the gentlest way possible that I only am who I am and I can only teach as well as I can try regardless of how calm or crazy, motivated or not, a classroom is. One fifty minute lesson comes and goes, as does the school day, as does the school year, as does a child's high school life. It comes and goes. I do my best. And then we all go home.

Is that depressing? I hope not. It's not depressing to me... downplaying (or seeing for what it really is..?) the impact of a teacher helps lighten the stress load for me. It helps me do my best without taking small things too seriously.

Back to my second period: I physically went through and got the students through all the activities that I had planned: conversation demonstrations, practice conversations, student conversation demonstrations; interview practice structure, interview practice time, interview performance feedback. Could the day have gone better? Yes. Could it have been worse? Yes. In the end, no one got hurt, and all is well.

Because my classes were consolidated all into one, I had no classes to teach for the rest of the day. As it is, I usually am only given 3 periods out of 6 periods in the day to teach. This is surprisingly quite typical for teachers in Japan; the idea is that there are plenty of teachers at the school, so teachers only seem to teach about half as much as teachers back home. The remaining periods are for teachers to meet with each other, lesson plan, and mark papers. Pretty sweet deal, right? In practice, each teacher has a very different life from other teachers. Some oversee sports and club activities, which keeps them at school until as late as 9 or 10 o'clock at night and either at school or at tournaments all day Saturday and sometimes multiple weekend and weekdays in a row, staying overnight at hotels with student club members. In my humble, outsider opinion, it's not fair that there aren't practices in place to ensure that a teacher won't go for three months straight without a free weekend and without monetary compensation for overtime. Some argue, though, that these teachers entered the public school teaching world knowing what they were getting themselves into and if they don't like it, they should have chosen another profession. At the same time, around here, the school is one of the (if not only) centers of society and daily life. Perhaps teachers who put in countless harrowing extra hours are simply living their life in as fulfilling as they can.

From third period on, I was charged with marking some students' diary entries and meeting with students individually to practice English conversation, writing, and debate. All of this has turned into great fun for me--it's nice to have a few anchor students in my life: students who names I actually know, who find me helpful, and whose paths I feel I can make a decent contribution to as they work towards what they want to be in life.

On the side at my desk, besides lesson planning for one of the other three high schools where I teach, I'm now also in the process of making the necessary preparations for life after--well, this. I sent out my fourth job application yesterday. So far, I've heard back from one. All of the jobs are (very, very, very) long shots, but I'm trying to focus on the quantity and quality of my applications as I send them our more so than the likelihood of any given application actually amounting to something. I'm just reminding myself to be patient and let change take the time that it needs to take in order for it to be good change.

After school, I ran errands--I walked to the bank in the center of town to withdraw a huge sum of cash, as is the norm in Japan. With high prices for, admittedly, high quality transportation (...and the frequency of which I travel...), the lack of open ATMs outside of regular business hours, and low theft crime rate here, it's no wonder than we're comfortable walking around with $200-$500 in our back pocket. Today was another such day for my pocket.

Afterwards, I walked to the train station. I made a reservation to take a bus to Tokyo in two weeks (!!!!) from today for my trip to Australia (!!!). I bought a ticket book for four highway bus trips to Tokyo, which cost ~$110. Soon, they'll be raising those prices, so I'll probably stock up on these tickets and buy another ticket book. It's expensive, but those tickets fly out of your hand fast. In two months, I'll have made four round trips to Tokyo. Sometimes, you just gotta fork over the cash and not dwell on it when you're trying to have adventures of a lifetime.

From there, I bundled up and braved the chilly Iwaki winds and walked one block down to the city library. I returned a library book which I started and finished with 24 hours. I've been devouring books like a madwoman lately; it's become more habitual than writing and as habitual as brushing my teeth. Today, I returned A World to Come by Dara Horn. I was sad to drop it in the return chute; I wished I could keep it to flip through and reread a lyrical and poetic allegory every now and then. Alas. Goodbye, book, and thanks for being awesome.

I was starving by this time, so I ducked into Mister Donuts for a quick snack (meat and noodle soup (niku soba) and a custard-filled, strawberry-cream, chocolate doughnut. I was not looking forward to running into students at the doughnut shop, considering I was by myself on a week day evening having what seemed to be a pitiful dinner all by myself. And then I remembered that I'm not a high school student any more and that they as shy high school students are more embarrassed to be seen by me than I am to be by them. So there. I walked into the shop and sure enough was greeted by a chorus of "Oh! Ei-pu-ri-ru! Harro!" I said hello back and then retreated to my inward, solitary world. The meal was delicious.

A midst all these errands, I ran into a total of a dozen to two dozen more of my students passing by on their way home or out with their friends. Many of them called out to me to greet me. Eventually, I started to appreciate the feeling of being at home, "where everybody knows your name...".

As the sun set and the chill settled in, I set off for my last errand of the evening. I walked a few more blocks away from the city center to meet a coworker for some work things. I'm choosing not to get into this too much right here right now. Maybe another time.

At 5:40, I walked back to the train station to meet my Japanese teacher. I was 10 minutes late. We do this to each other a bit though, which is actually quite nice for me after months and months of rigid punctuality in Japan after a lifetime of being 30 minutes or more late to meet friends.

In the car on the way to her house, I caught up with Takahashi-san and her daughter. I spoke to her daughter in English so that she could practice English, and spoke Japanese with Takahashi, for my practice. Conversation was running relatively smoothly as I recapped my weekend in Tokyo (met up with Adrienne, a friend from California, watched a sumo tournament, visited a neighborhood dedicated entirely to used book shops, wandered Harajuku, stopped in at a Calbee store, found a hole-in-the-wall, gourmet coffee shop and ordered a $5 shot of Bailey's espresso). Somehow, we got into a discussion of the technicalities of a sumo match, the fact that the previous yokozuna moved on to politics in Mongolia, and Arnold Shwarzenegger's own stint in politics. Such topics in Japanese were really stretching my mind to its limits, but I'm thankful for these instances.

This evening, Takahashi brought me to the bookstore and helped me pick out a new study book. I always get starry eyed and excited when talking about books or when I'm in a bookstore--a feeling that Takahashi-san knows all too well. She guided me through the elementary 3rd and 4th grade level Japanese books and recommended titles for me to practice Japanese. It turned out that she had all these books at home (which actually is no surprise, considering that she has shelves upon shelves of about 600 picture books, comic books, and novels at her house), and she was willing to lend me all the books I want to read. I was elated.

We got back to her house and studied Japanese for an hour. Brian joined us after word and studied, too. When Sakurako, Takahashi -san's other daughter came home from school, she took over the lesson while Takahashi-san prepared dinner (Indian curries, chicken tandoori, salad, tumeric rice, naan, and salad!). In total, I spent the usual 5 hours with Takahashi-san last night. It's always so much fun getting to know their family, exchanging stories in Japanese and in English, eating all kinds of amazing food, and feeling at-home in a warm, cozy, real, home away from home.

And, well, that brings me to today. This morning, I found out that I passed my Japanese proficiency test with flying colors! I'm extra motivated to study, study, study, and practice, practice, practice in time for the next Japanese proficiency test date. I don't know if all this studying is leading up to something grand, knowing Japanese and learning a little more is helpful for me right now, every day, so why not? We don't always have to know what we're working towards in order to work hard.

Lastly, just a reminder for myself, as a lover of writing who puts off the daily responsibility of writing in hopes for a grand, love-at-first-sight, type of inspiration to get my pen moving or keyboard clicking: your manifesto will not come on its own in middle of the night, ready and waiting for you when you wake up in the morning. Life is enormous as is; all we can do is try and keep up. So write, write, write; whether it's good or not, let others decide. Til then, just write, write, write.

2013: The Year of "Do"

What I Did:

1. My sisters came to Tokyo for the first time in over a decade.

...we visited a shrine for New Year along with what I can only assume is about half the population of Japan.

2. I made new friends.

...mostly French.

...and also a lot of ex-pat, former-Cali, new friends

3. I faced my fear of heights.

4. I inadvertently had a week-long full immersion Japanese experience...

...and traversed some sand dunes while I was at it.

5. I saw (...and ate...) almost all of Taiwan.

6. Spent 10 days in China...

6. ... a few days in South Korea...

7. ...and some family time for Christmas and New Year in the Philippines.

...with Ayumi, my other half.

8. I continued old hobbies.

I ran a lot.

(one relay race, three half marathons, a 9-mile "run from hell" (as it's actually called), 

and one full marathon, to be exact)

And I read a lot.

(40 books!)

And I found one of my new favorite books, Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.

9. I also pushed myself to get better at newer hobbies.

10. I took a step or two forward in the love department.

11. Most importantly, I enjoyed life to the fullest all year round.

Thanks for the memories, 2013!

Palawan, Philippines: A Long, Bumpy Road and Smooth, Crystal Seas

This past January, I found round trip tickets from Manila to Puerto Princessa, Palawan for only $50 USD on Kayak.com -- pretty sweet deal, especially considering that the trip was from January 1 - 4, peak travel time in the Philippines. Family time and a gorgeous beaches -- a girl could do worse.

The deals only got sweeter from there. My tita (auntie) who lives in the Philippines booked a tour package deal through a friend of a friend (something like that). Here's what we got:

• Pick-up from Puerto Princessa airport
• one night hotel-stay in Puerto Princessa, including breakfast
• tour of Underground River, including lunch, tour guide, and transportation
• round-trip travel from Puerto Princessa to El Nido (an 8-hour van ride)
• 2 night hotel-stay in El Nido, including breakfast
• full-day island-hopping tour, including tour guide, private boat, lunch, and snorkeling

...all for the modest price of $150 USD. Not bad price for a little slice of paradise.


Day 1: Check-in, Dinner, and Night City Tour

The coziness and quaint luxury of our room at the Purple Fountain was a pleasant surprise and a nice change from the flat, hard bunk beds of my usual hostel stays. We fit 8 guests comfortably with all the beds and sofas in our family cabin.

For dinner, I shamelessly ordered a hearty hamburger with a generous side of fries. When you spend an extended amount of time abroad, you’re surprised at what the things you become homesick for. I never considered myself a hamburger enthusiast, but now, whenever a big, juicy 1/3-pounder burger is on the menu, I snatch that up—usually with bacon and avocado. The restaurant’s décor was an explosion of color, mixing Western and Filipino art and artifacts. It was fitting considering our party’s orders of hamburgers, buffalo wings, and fried rice with shrimp paste (a Filipino delicacy I’ve never come to appreciate).

After dinner, the eight of us squeezes into two tricycles. The tricycles in Palawan are large and spacepod-looking. The sidecar is more of a cabin car that covers the driver as well as the passengers—bulkier than comparatively minimalist tricycles of Manila.

We drove through the town and ended up at the city’s boardwalk. There, food stalls lined the sidewalk, children zipped around on tiny bicycles and tricycles, the breeze blew over the coast to kiss couples sitting side-by-side on the dock, and men and women crowded gambling booths situated next to a three-story tall Christmas tree made of metal, plastic, lights, and everything except an actual tree.

The warmth, music, leisureliness, and a roving band of musician friends reminded me of my nights in Havana, Cuba. It’s amazing the similarities you’ll find in countries thousands of miles away, among people who’ve never met each other.

Kuya Aeron, Ariane, and I decided to take a spin on the rickety, too-fast, whirling Ferris wheel. These terrifying faire rides always look so hastily slapped together. The grinding and groaning of this rusty machine made me wonder during which world war it was built. After seven (seven!) long minutes, the mad spinning and my screaming stopped, and the ride was over. A trip is not truly a trip until you feel you’re on the edge of life and thrilling death in the middle of a foreign paradise.

  Day 2: Underground River and drive to El Nido

The next morning, my family and I shared a gigantic tour van with another family headed to the Underground River. The family was Vietnamese-Canadian. The father taught English in Vietnam, met and married his wife, moved with her to Canada, had two kids, and then moved back to Vietnam, where he now teaches at a Canadian international school. He and I chatted non-stop for near an hour about our experience teaching English abroad and how I can get into teaching at international schools. Encounters like this always make me believe that I’m on a journey to cross paths with people I’m destined to meet, but would never meet in any other situation. In this man’s case, I could only meet him on a bumpy, narrow, unfinished trail road surrounded by white rock mountains that race to the sky.

After we finally arrived at a port, we had to wait hours and hours for our turn for a boat to take us to the underground river. We passed time by enjoying the mountainous scenery, the soft waves of the clear sea. We browsed souvenir and snack stalls and even played a pick-up game of basketball with some local kids and a tall, hunkering foreigner guy. It was scorching hot and we had nothing on but tank tops and sandals, but the girls’ team beat the boys 6-4.

The boat ride to the underground river was worth the wait. The sea rolled gently, the breeze sprayed us refreshingly. We were completely surrounded by the blues and greens of the clear sea and lush, tropical trees-covered mountains.

In the short walk from the underground river port to the mouth of the cave, we crossed paths with two wild monkeys. One monkey sat on the narrow walking path where hundreds of tourists strolled each day; he sat, hardly blinking at the passerbys who’d stop and take his picture. The second monkey, one we saw later, was up to no good: he cleverly spotted an unattended bag next to a crowd of people, and did his best to snatch it before anyone could notice. His efforts failed, but not without a bit of a scuffle.

Fitting for helmets didn’t yet make me nervous to for the 45-minute tour of the cavernous 8-kilometer long cave and river tour, but the pitch blackness and hundreds of bats that hung asleep overhead once we entered the cave was enough to raise my excitement. The cave was cool, dank, huge, and completely dark. We rowed along in our little boat and gazed at the monstrous stalactites and stalagmites as we floated by. One thing that surprised me about the rocky structures was how strangely organized they were—each one was a different color according to the type of mineral it comprised. Our guide pointed out shapes of stalactites and caves that (allegedly) resembled the Virgin Mary, an altar, the shroud used to wipe Jesus’ face, a nativity scene, and a towering cathedral. Later, we passed ones that (supposedly) bear a striking resemblance to a carrot, an ear of corn, and a potato. All throughout the tour, our guide would remark… “You are in a bat cave. But there’s no Batman! Only me—a boatman!” and “You see that? That’s bat poop, or guano. We call this area the ‘BAThroom!’” and “Watch your head, the bats are sleeping—they’re low-bat!” and finally, “the water is dripping here. Look up—we call this place the Eiffel tower… because when you look up, your EYES will be FULL of water! ha ha ha.” You know you’re in the Philippines when everything can be reference to food, Jesus, or made into a corny joke.

Later in the day, we set off for our 6-hour ride from Puerto Princessa to El Nido.

Along the way, we passed fields, forests, mountains, and a check point where law enforcement checked to make sure that we weren’t bringing mangos from one side of the island to the other. What was most memorable to me, though, were the dozens of clusters of bahay kubo along the narrow, winding, unfinished highway. Bahay kubo are traditional Filipino huts made of bamboo. The openness of the hut keeps everyone cool inside the one or two-room hut. If the huts had any electricity at all, it was for a single light bulb that hung in the center of the hut. Families cooked their meals on open fires outside.

Ariane helped me pass the time by sharing stories about the province. She told me about small towns where everyone knew everybody. The only families who had electricity were the ones with personal generators. Her family in the province has not only a generator, but a TV; at night, kids and even adults crowded outside of their window to sneak a peak at that nights’ TV program. In the province, people generally stay indoors, eat, nap, and share stories during the day to hide from the heat; at night, everybody comes out to eat and share more stories. For birthdays, anniversaries, and any excuse for a celebration, the whole town participates in cooking, eat, playing, singing, and dancing.

At last, we arrived at the beachside (two hops from the front gate and you’re wading in Philippine Sea! One hop at high tide). I was a bit restless after periodic naps on during the six-hour journey, so I sat out on the hammock to listen to the waves crash and watch couples pass by on their cliché (but lovely) moonlight walk along the beach.

Day 3: Island-hopping in El Nido

The next morning, I wake up to beams of light roving the dark walls of the hotel. It was past 6a.m., which meant that electricity had been shut off and would be until 2p.m.

Everyone was up early, so we explored the little markets. A broken, run-down school was nestled in a hillside just a couple blocks away, surrounded by lush green mountains and illuminated by the morning sun.

While we waited for our tour guide to arrive, my cousins and I played dodge ball on the beach with a cheap ball that Kuya Aeron had purchased. We invited some foreigners and little kids to play with us.

At 9:00, our tour guide shuffled us onto our boat. Since we were such a large party, we had a boat to ourselves—complete with free snorkel gear to use!

We skidded across the sometimes-dark blue, sometimes-clear sea, enclosed on our left and right by towering tree-topped islands made of limestone. Our first task: snorkeling!

I was surprised that we weren’t briefed on the importance of not stepping on any coral or sea life before jumping into the water. After a few seconds, I found out why. All of the coral was dead; fish were sparse. The underwater scenery was brown and eerie. Either it was this way because tour guides didn’t bother to tell snorkelers to mind the coral, or tour guides don’t warn snorkelers because there’s not any live coral left to kill. It was sad not to see any colorful coral or tropical fish, but perhaps somewhere not too far away, there is a secret area off the coast of another deserted island where fish roam happily, safely tucked away from this human-infested snorkeling destination.

We climbed back onto the boat and zipped along to other neighboring islands. At one, we stopped to marvel at an alter and old, church-like structure on a tiny remote island. We climbed jagged rocks and took death defying but breath-taking pictures. Afterwards, sun-drained of energy, we rested on an island with a sandbar just wide enough for a BBQ party of a or so dozen beachgoers: our tour guides teamed up to cook us up some grilled fish, chicken, and squid, rice, salsa, and cut up mangos, pineapples, and yellow watermelon! This area was my favorite, because I found a hideaway cove, big enough for just one person (me!). I sunbathed, letting the crystal clear waves tickle my toes.

We hit up two more destination spots after that for more snorkeling and more time to relax at secret beaches (one beach of which is actually named Secret Beach). The views were so spectacular and other-worldly, it seemed right out of a sci-fi movie.

Finally, after a long day, we headed back to the hotel to rest. For dinner, we crawled the bar and restaurant and settled for a Southeast-fusion swanky restaurant. Of our party, none of us could decide if we liked our own dish or regretted not ordering someone else’s because everything was so good.

Day 4: City Tours of El Nido and Puerto Princessa

The next morning, after two and a half long days of traversing the seas and waters, we piled into the huge tour van again to make our way back to Puerto Princessa. Our driver was nice enough to make several stops along the way for us. Most notable was our stop for noodles with bone marrow soup!

Oddly enough, as we pulled up to the drop off curb at the airport, it started to rain. We caught only the tentative sprinkle of rain at the beginning as we walked from door to door of the van and the airport, but once we were under the shade of the awning, it started downpour. 

With that, after three days of nothing but sunshine, our trip had officially come to an end.