I'm not going to go on about it, but I had been suffering. It's not in my character to complain. Errhum. But the last couple of months in the UK, as my Grandma Hazel would have said, the cold has been playing havoc with my rheumatics. My theory was overtraining. But getting to the Philippines and the 30* heat, and the immediate and total relief from any residual pain proves my Gran right. I am the oldest traveller in town. Apart from, of course, the hundreds of Euro sextravellers we encountered in the bars of downtown Manila.
Manila was definitely a bit too much for us in hindsight. And after three nights there, it's a joy landing in Puerta Princesa. Palawan is our first stop after Manila. A vast island with a well worn traveller route starting in the south and heading overland upcountry to El Nido, a beach resort and embarkation point for many island hopping adventures. We feel like the travelling has really started.
To celebrate we headed to the Baywalk, downtown PP. We had a bag of crisps at Manila airport but were gnawingly hungry by the time sunset was approaching. The Baywalk is a waterside promenade lined with what appear from a distance to be pretty ramshackle food stalls. Closer inspection revealed a well oiled system of restaurants banging out Philippino, Korean, and general south East Asian foods accompanied by an obligatory bucket of 'San Mig' beer. This seems to be the brand of choice and is locally brewed but a relic of colonial Spanish occupation under licence from San Miguel. I found out later that their delicious Red Horse version is a 6.9% proof delight that would rapidly have me living on a park bench.
The fresh fish options were irresistible and we chose an ugly looking non-species specific white fish to be grilled, about £7 for two. Hunger getting the better of us we also managed sizzling squid, steamed rice, and plates of fried and steamed vegetables. Liberally drizzled with chillies Soy and vinegar. Manila with its fried chicken had left us desperate for a fresh local meal. We got exactly what we asked for. Delicious.
Hibiscus Garden hotel was a good find, a little trip away from the centre by local tuktuk. Tuk tuk here is a tricycle motorbike with super wide covered sidecar for two, seemingly held together with webbing straps and green wire. Both times we've used this mode of transport we have been piloted by extremely weathered elderly toothless local gents with zero banter. I'm sure it's a coincidence. Safe is not the word I am searching for, but I must say the driving, and general traffic behaviour in Philippines is head and shoulders better than we experienced last year in India, even if the conversation is decidedly lacking.
After an early breakfast we got a cab a couple of hours up the coast to Daluyon near the mouth of the fabled underground river. This brings me to the subject of driving. We have investigated possibilities, and car or motorbike hire is not that expensive here, but we are heading one way, so would need to drop off at end of our trip not where we started. There is a significant surcharge for this. My maths is unreliable because I really like being driven, but I can pretty much assure you that a cab works out cheaper than car hire. At least for this part of our journey and that suits me fine. Louise can blame her travel sickness on someone else and I get to take in the scenery.
Daluyon is spectacular beach front and we lazed for the rest of the day and body surfed. I say body surfed, in that I borrowed a short board which I wore proudly attached to my wrist. I did catch a huge roller, and when I came up I found myself in pretty much the spot I started from. I thought I heard some cheering from the beach.
Early morning next day we are off to the Underground River. The Underground River marketing board seemed to have written the audio tour while tripping on acid. We really enjoyed the iconography they associated with the numerous stalagmites and stalactites as we tripped the 2km into the mountain river. The one immediately above was known as the church candle. I mean, if you must, but the one of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct was simply not accurate. I know, I have worn the DVD out inspecting that scene.
After the tour, don't get me wrong I highly recommend it, we headed straight for Port Barton. Famous for nothing except its fabulous beaches and hippy vibe. Our cab driver, Mark, from yesterday volunteered to come back to complete the next leg of the journey for half the price quoted by our hotel. We celebrated with a bottle of red wine costing twice the difference. We are on holiday afterall.
We have our first clothing casualty. I bought a dry bag. It seems obvious to everyone else except me that this is for dry goods. The bag remaining dry, inside, keeps the contents dry. What it isn't, again in hind sight, is a wet bag. The waterproof black bag seemed a perfect place for our swim wear after an early morning outing. Into the dry bag, securely sealed and placed in the 32*c confines of the taxi boot. This microbiological Petri dish environment, by the way, is perhaps the perfect environment in which to culture mildew. Both my prized swimmers and Louise's newest bikini, covered in smelly, deeply staining mildew. Apparently this is not only a lung irritant, but my wife finds it quite irritating too. I should have known better. I call this the joy of travel, learning by trial and error. Louise sees it as a reason to go shopping.
Port Barton was wonderful and we lazed our time away on the idyllic Sunset beach reached by boat. Be warned fellow elderly hippies, boat to the beach, in Philippines, means boat to within waist height wade of the shore. With a rocky shore line and half your worldly goods balanced on your head. Core strength, balance, and water shoes very much an essential. It's fun to watch, in fact I'm thinking of pitching a Channel four show "elderly celebrities wade ashore"?
Next, on to El Nido, this time in a shared minivan. My chat with the sticky legged Aussie seat companion could form the basis of a book. Our outer thighs were so welded together at one point I had to physical separate us. He was keen to share his travels and they were interesting, but this is my blog not his. I think he was missing his dad, and seemed very keen to offload. Lovely man. Sweaty and uncomfortable but an beautiful analogy for the joy of backpacking.
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