The moment my mother said these words, a rush of memories filled my head. I remembered riding a big boat, a roro, I think it’s called. I threw up once, while riding the roro. I was six years old. There were so many people crowded on the boat, and the sun was mercilessly shining that day. I ruined my grandmother’s pants, soiled my cousin’s slippers, and smelled vile. It would have been a horrendous (not to mention, a terribly embarrassing) experience, were it not for the dolphins. The friendly creatures chose that moment – my moment of shame and sickness – to put on the show for the roro passengers. There were three of them jumping in and out of a crystal-blue sea, keeping up with the boat as it made its way to the beautiful island of Puerto Galera in Mindoro. Thanks to them, I could almost ignore the terrible smell, the heat, my headache, and the bile threatening to rise once again in my throat.
This memory is the most vivid of all my experiences in and going to the island – a meaningful statement considering that I’ve seen mini tornadoes, sea turtles washed up on shore, and seahorses playing in the shallow pools along the coast of Puerto Galera. With all of these wonderful and not-so-wonderful recollections in my head, I could barely contain my excitement that I had an opportunity to go back to my favorite place in the Philippines, the beach of my childhood.
The boat trip this time around was a far cry from the roro commute I had done 12 years ago. For one, I didn’t ride on a roro. My mom rented a bangka, or the local speedboat, to ferry us to Mindoro. No dolphins swam alongside the boat. The sky was overcast, and rain seemed to be on the horizon. But I didn’t care. Things changed, I told myself. I was going back to Puerto Galera. That was all that mattered.
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| Bangkas waiting for passengers idle by the shore. |
Stepping onto the rocky dock, I saw that the island, unlike the journey, had remained unchanged. The same towering palm trees swayed in the salty, sticky ocean breeze. The same pale sand scorched my feet as I dug my toes into the beach. Vendors still sold halo-halo in translucent plastic cups (that you had to give back to them!) to people traipsing in and out of the water. The halo-halo even had sand in it, just like it used to. Souvenirs hawked by perpetually smiling, perpetually convincing locals were little different from the ones sold over a decade ago – t-shirts with happy suns, maps of the region, rainbow-colored shorts, and giant conch shells and sea buddies collected from the reefs around the island.
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| Against a backdrop of a verdant hill and perfect blue sky, a halo-halo vendor makes his living on the beach. |
My family flagged down a dusty jeepney that my dad said had the engine of a bus, which enabled it to maneuver the rocky and steep roads leading to the many resorts dotting Puerto Galera. We never stay at the same resort twice, and each one has something unique to offer.
The first one we visited, White Sand Beach, is famous for what else but white sand. Pirate’s Cove Resort, the second, is the opposite – it doesn’t have a beach, and the area leading to the sea is walled up, and there is only a small opening where swimmers pass to get to the water. There are no waves, and the ocean is almost like a salt lake. One morning while lolling in the shallow portion of the water, I saw a tiny black seahorse. That same day, a sea snake swam by me. At the third resort, sea cucumbers gather by the coast in the early mornings, and guests can stand on sandbars to observe them.
I wondered what lay ahead at this fourth resort. I was expecting cottages, like all the others. What I got was a hotel. A hotel? At Puerto? Sacrilege!
Admittedly, staying in a hotel meant bug bites no more, air-conditioned rooms, and running water in indoor bathrooms. However, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed that I would no longer be living in a small nipa hut, with the sounds of crickets, geckos, and the next-door neighbors lulling me to sleep at night.
In the hotel, the drone of the television blaring CNN news reports replaced the sounds of nature, and the comfy bed was significantly better to sleep on than the thin mats and bamboo floors in the cottages. The rooms, to the hotel’s credit, are very inviting and provide a welcome respite to the humidity outdoors. The rest of the hotel is sprawling, with a pool, restaurant, and function room. It rents out jetskis and banana boats to its guests. A snake and lizard at the front desk amuse and shock guests who check in.
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| The water remains pristinely blue. |
Beautiful as the hotel was, I was eager to escape it and dive into the ocean to see if it too had undergone a transformation in the 12 years I was absent. It had not. The water was just as cool, the seaweed still washed up onshore, and jellyfish still sting at certain times of the day. Even when the t-shirt and short-clad crowd was replaced by bikini babes and foreigners with sunblock smeared on their noses, the essence of Puerto Galera still remains the same.
Maybe I didn’t throw up. I didn’t see dolphins, either. Instead of a bug-infested cottage, a hotel served as my home away from home. But I went back to Manila with a light heart, knowing that my island, Puerto Galera is still the island that I knew and loved all those years ago.
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| The golden sunrise view from my *ahem* hotel room. |
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Just for kicks, here's a (very unhelpful) look at Puerto Galera 12 years ago. From the recesses of my family photo album, here's a picture of me inside the old hut where we used to stay. Yes, that is a tent inside the hut. No, I didn't sleep inside it because (1) there was no mat on the floor - I would be basically sleeping on hard bamboo, and (2) it was stifling hot in there. I just thought it would be cool to like, pitch a tent. Indoors. Camp-in, you know?
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