Port Barton June 19-22

 I got a chance to realize my Philippine fantasies for two days in this place 148 km. northeast of Puerto Princesa. I located a van that was making the 3.5 hour drive on Monday the 19th. Roy found one of his many relatives who drive tricycles for a living to take me to the bus station. It’s a good thing I asked my caretaker/neighbor since Google had positioned the bus terminal quite a ways from the actual place. If I’d insisted on ‘doing it myself’ I’d surely have missed the bus and repeated my frustrations of the Underground River tour. Roy wanted me to give his cousin 150 pesos (three bucks) for the relatively arduous journey to the bus; I gave him 300 on my theory that it is always my responsibility to slightly overpay as my touristic penance. 

 The bus stop was a shed affixed to a covered waiting area that held some wooden benches. A couple cats and a similar number of small dogs bounded in and out of the waiting area. The three women tending to customers were simultaneously caring for two infants; one (about three months old, I’d guess) bouncing in a suspended cloth bag; the other, a boy of about 18 months tottered around between the shed and the waiting area. An assortment of Filipino passengers filtered in to occupy the benches. Bordering this human traffic was a line of freight — boxes and 50 lb bags of rice. The first van to appear was quickly loaded with freight while we humans watched. When my van showed up it already had a handful of Westerners who had been picked up from their hotels. Eventually we had twelve occupants for our trip. 

Life aboard our outrigger

{I tried to do some mental math to judge whether this outfit was making any money. We tourists paid $11/trip but I guessed that the Filipinos paid a little less. Total revenue I surmised would be about $105. For expenses I allowed $25 for gas at six dollars a gallon; I guess about the same amount to the driver for four hours of labor; maintenance of the vehicle at thirty cents/mile would be another $25. Overhead? Wild guess of $10. That gave them about twenty bucks of gross profit.} 

 PB is what we call in the States, ‘a tourist trap’, a seemingly endless progression of restaurants, small hotels, and various other businesses all focused on satisfying the whims of Australians, Brits, Koreans, Europeans, and other visitors from the First World. My previous experience of such places includes a village-whose-name-I-can’t-recall in southwestern Laos & the monochromatic towns along the southeast coast of Florida in the 60’s (Ft. Lauderdale, Boynton Beach, et.al.). When our bus landed in PB they asked us to sign a list (name, nationality, age, accommodation). The tall, blonde woman who had sat in front of me in the van also preceded me in the signature line. That allowed me to note that she was headed for the Green Hostel,the same establishment I sought. She strode with such resolution that I assumed she knew whence the place was, so, at a distance, I followed in her footsteps. Oddly, my guide was carrying a backpack identical to my own (she must be an REI customer) but also in her right hand was a large bicycle tire. After about four hundred yards of follow-the-leader I decided it might be prudent to find out if my theorizing was correct; afterall she might be headed to somewhere else with that tire. Fortunately my hypothesis was confirmed. She was a catalonian from Barcelona (“I speak Catalan and Spanish, with just a bit of English,” she offered.) She was following her phone to the hostel, so we made common cause and trucked on. Very soon my hostess was welcomed by two groups of Catalans who knew her. I stood by patiently while they shot the breeze for a few minutes. Then we finished the walk to our destination. Three young, smiling filipino lasses handled our registration. Almost immediately one of them asked if I’d like to go on an ‘island tour’. I said yes, and paid the 1,250 pesos for the tour scheduled for the next day. The hostel was clean and serviceable, better than the average place I’ve stayed in over the past 22 years. 

Our lunch spot

Is lunch ready?

 Next day, Tuesday morning, I was introduced to a Brit, Barney,and his pretty young Mexican girl friend, Andrea, as well as a Spaniard who was on sabbatical from his job in Northern Spain. When we got to the boat that was to take us to the islands I met two Korean couples; an elderly Australian with his young Filipino companion; and another young couple whose nationality I never learned. The trip was a blast. Port Barton borders on a huge bay probably nearly the size of San Francisco Bay, but, from what I observed, too shallow to accommodate any commercial traffic. Thus the population of the area was tiny, perhaps ten thousand souls sprinkled among a few shoreline villages, if my eyes didn’t betray me. What the place did have was miles and miles of coral of magnificent hues and shapes. Some of it was no more than two feet below the outriggers of our boat. We stopped three times to swim over the beds (“You may not touch the coral or the fish,” our guide admonished.) I was worried that I was so out of shape that I might not be able to keep up with the swimming, but thankfully I needn’t have worried. I did get a respectable sunburn on my chest from floating on my back. We stopped for lunch on a perfect white sand beach and feasted on fish, squid, vegetables and chicken. Delicious. 

 The next day Barney, Andrea, and the Spaniard invited me to hike down the shoreline to a secluded beach about a half mile from the hostel. Again I had a terrific day. This was my last scheduled day at the hostel and I was actually glad of it. Though I enjoyed my time here I was sated with paradise. Inexplicably, I miss my house in Puerto Princesa. A bunk in a hostel is suitable for brief excursions but I yearned for the room to spread out and relax that I have in PP. And tourist traps are inherently artificial. I enjoyed swapping travel stories with Barney and Andrea but I’m ready for the relative solitude of The Village House. It makes no sense, but it is what it is. And I can honestly say that I found the beautiful beaches I thought I’d find here.

Barney, Andrea & the Spaniard returning from paradise.