Monthly Report

For the first time in my life the past month has felt exactly like a month. It hasn't gone quickly, it hasn't gone slowly, it has just passed—30 days, predictably 12 hours long. Watching the tide and the moon so carefully has helped with this, I think. We have been occupying a room at Oceans 101 for four and a half weeks and it is time to move on, but we can't quite get ourselves prepared to move again. Siargao Island has become a kind of home and we will be sad to leave. But it is strange to make your home at a resort. We are craving some kind of domestic freedom: to make our own breakfast, to buy our own groceries, to sweep our own front porch. Having people cooking and cleaning for you every day sounds nice, but we are too independent for such a life.

The one thing I have reclaimed is laundry, doing it by hand in the shower and hanging it on our jagged stick fence to dry. It is hard work scrubbing our sweaty, muddy, salty clothes with a brick of soap like a slippery pumice stone. I crouch in the shower over the bucket feeling very native, wishing only that I had a good river rock to scrub against. The first time I was hanging our laundry out, one of the girls who works here walked by astonished. What is silly about the whole thing is that the resort has a washing machine, but it isn't that we are too cheap to send our laundry out but more like it is somehow the one thing that I have chosen to repossess from my former non-vacation life. She wasn't astonished that I had the nerve to turn down their services, she couldn't believe I knew how to do laundry. "How do you know how to do that?" she asked. "In my country, when I am at home, I do all my own laundry and cook my own food and clean my own house." Suddenly my skin felt very white (despite the impressive tan I've worked up) and I felt very defensive and then sad for our world, in which we constantly find ways to create power instabilities, where hard work leads to luxury for some and means only more hard work for others.

The thing that's nice about living at a resort is the constant flow of new people to meet. They come and go like the tide and we've met a whole cast of interesting characters while we've been here. Only one other guest has been here the whole month—a one legged conspiracy theorist from Australia, who surfs on his one leg, drinks his own pee, and sees UFOs almost every night over the sea. Friendly enough guy, though. The family, of course, is always here. The owner is an Australian surfer who owns a heavy equipment company back home. He spends most of his time here though where he is married to a savvy and beautiful local woman. They have three kids, and it is the six-year old we have the most contact with. She is a smart but bored and bratty girl, who won't go to school with the village kids and spends most of her time cheating at cards or pool with the guests. She has developed a love/hate relationship with Peter, who is the only one who will call her out on her deception but also really wants to make her island life a little more educational. The one-year old daughter loves Peter, too—loves to grab his goatee and touch his rough face. She is doted on like crazy around here, passed from mom to aunt to grandma to guest to uncle to sister all day. She's moments away from taking her first step if only someone would let her.

Of course there's the staff, who are like family, too, in that they are always around. But they aren't treated like family even though they live here. The waitresses are waiting all day (7 am to 10 pm) in the restaurant to take our orders and the cooks are in the kitchen prepping or blending up fruit juices for our whims. When things are slow (at one point we were the only guests here with about 10 people waiting on us), they sometimes go out and pull weeds in the lawn. They never get a day off and sleep five to a room on a foam mattress made for two. But they are charming girls and when we dance with them at the village disco on Saturday nights we are lucky to have them as dates. They dance full steam—like they have a lot to let out—and stay out until 2 am. When we see them again it is breakfast and they have slept for maybe three hours and our asking us what it is we'd like to have today while we peruse the menu we have memorized.

The Flying Fox

There's a restaurant on the road to town, where the flying foxes cross over in plain view during their evening exodus. It's called the Flying Fox, appropriately, and serves "international cuisine." On Sundays it serves all you can eat German food for about four dollars. We had to check it out. The food at our place is good, but we have been here almost a month and have exhausted the menu. Bread and sausages and kraut sounded like a real treat. When we got there, there was a table full of European men who had been drinking since the buffet opened at 1:00 pm. We went late in hopes of seeing the bats after dinner. The proprietor asked us where we're from. Peter said Idaho, and the proprietor said, "Oh Idaho. I am from Florida," in a strong German accent. "Idaho is famous for potatoes. I will never forget my first Idaho potato. Pure gold and no need for butter." Then he escorted us to the food.

It was an impressive spread. Pork schnitzel, German potato salad, crabs, shrimps, oysters, compact and firm green bananas, a salad of sweet potato greens with a garlic vinegar, fresh baked sour dough bread with fennel, and French fries made from cassava root. It was amazing and we gorged ourselves. Victor, the owner, grows most of the food on his property and praised the health properties of the sweet potato greens, which are star shaped and a bit of work to chew, but are quite tasty.

Then the bats came out. Victor calls them his babies and pretended to call them out. Of course we had already seen the bats and knew it was the predictable fall of dusk that produced their flight, not his whistling call, but we acted impressed. "Here is the king!" he said when the first one appeared—a real giant. "Now two, then four, then eight, then a hundred." It was like an episode of Sesame Street listening to him count bats with such enthusiasm. Victor bought his property because of the bats and wants to protect them. He buys them at markets, where they're sold live for meat, and sets them free. He did the same with a flying lemur a local sold him for his "international menu." It seemed that Victor was a bit of a naturalist and we were very refreshed to meet such a person.

But Victor, it turned out, is an animal lover, but he's so much more than a naturalist. Victor is a staunch anarchist (like so many of the single male ex-pats that turn up on small islands) and also a treasure hunter. He worked in Florida diving to reap the bounty of Spanish wrecks. He is also a champion gold panner. "I can show you my trophy," he says, "1986 world champion." He was also, unrelatedly, a kickboxing world champion in the 80s, and he has the trophies to prove that too. Victor made his fortune when he discovered 400 Celtic coins in the Black Forest. That was his retirement money: one and a half million dollars (converted to U.S. dollars and adjusted for inflation). He's panned for gold all over the U.S., but he swears the biggest nuggets he's ever seen are near Surigao City, here in the Philippines, just a short ferry ride away. He'd love to get in there and tear that place up with a vacuum dredge, but foreigners can't take any minerals out of the Philippines and he'd be machine gunned down if he tried. The only way to take gold out of the country, he says, is to melt it into cubes, paint it black, strap it to a belt and call it dive weights. Not sure if he's actually tried this.

The night progressed with wild drunken story telling. Eventually, he went behind the bar and brought back a Tupperware full of treasure: dozens of rings, a pair of 4,000 year old Roman tweezers, a 2,000 year old brooch, a WWII bullet casing turned into a shotglass by servicemen. Then he called over his seventeen year old Filipina waitress who was wearing an ancient silver ring on almost every finger. Victor is one of those guys who always thinks you don't believe him. "You don't believe me? I'll show you," and he would summon his twenty-four-year old pregnant Filipina girlfriend over and ask her to retrieve an artifact or a book or a trophy. It was a crazy night that could have gone on forever, but our bellies and heads were full, so we thanked Victor for the food and the stories and the bats and took our leave.

Best Birthday Ever

My birthday started early this morning (5:45!) with a surprise serenade by the staff of our place and some local villagers. The Filipinos know about a dozen birthday songs (my favorite had a line about how happy Jesus was that I was another year older) and the concert lasted almost a half hour. They also prepared a birthday tree for me—the trunk was made of the soft heart of a banana tree and the branches were ferns and flowers stuck in with 29 candles perched carefully on them. The tree was ceremoniously lit and then I blew out the candles. Everyone handed me a flower and then showered me with petals. I could get used to waking up to such loveliness.

I had mango stuffed pancakes for breakfast, then we made an early surfing trip to nearby Dako Island, which is one of the only spots around here that's good for beginners. I did not have any good rides (well, one on my knees), but Peter put on a good show, and the nice thing about reef breaks is that if you get tired of surfing, you can always snorkel around and look at the corals. On the way back we stopped at deserted Guiam Island—a perfect tiny island with coconut palms, white sand, and good tide pools. This island is so photogenic that it was the past cover of the Lonely Planet Philippines guide. We wandered around the island for a while and eventually the spear fishermen came in with some beautiful little fish. It's unfortunate that they eat such tiny colorful fish, but it's interesting to get so close to the fish—to feel and examine them. I'm pretty sure there will be no fish left in the world in my lifetime.

We had a harrowing boat ride home at the peak of low tide, so all the monster waves around the island were really rearing up. Even though we could go safely around them, the swell was enormous. We were sunburned and tired when we got back, so we lunched then napped. A spectacular sunset kept our attention this evening and then it was time to party. Peter bought me a pig, which our hosts roasted all day over a coconut shell fire. I shared my bounty with all the staff and guests here at Oceans 101 and we had a real feast with plenty of pork and rice, pancit noodles, a marinated vegetable salad, and a pink frilly cake from the town bakery to finish it off. We finished the night with sips of rum between games of pool with new friends and I must say it was one of the best birthdays ever.

Island Dates and Rock Pools

We have become quite good friends with two Swedish girls who have spent the last two weeks here with us. They are inquisitive and adventurous and nice to have around. They have also captured the attention of a handful of local surfers, who try every day to impress the girls with adventures around the island. Luckily, we manage to get invited on some of these dates. Today we rented motorbikes and headed to a place 30 km north of here called the Rock Pools, which is a unique spot where at low tide, the deep pools get separated from the sea, forming a private aquarium, perfect for swimming and snorkeling. Fish get trapped there too and some corals even grow, so it's a perfectly still mini-ocean.

We cruised around the island, driving through the lush farmland of rice paddies fringed by coconut plantations. When we would come into a village, it was like we were in a parade. The road would be lined with children and adults waving and yelling "Hello, friend," and sometimes just shrieking with delight at the sight of foreigners. So different from the icy stares and mumbles and pointing of the Chinese unaccustomed to us. I would wave from the back of the bike trying to alternate sides so as to not leave anyone out, and eventually my face would get sore from smiling so much. The beach is great, but it's this heart of the island—the interior—that's really special and I hope to get to explore it further.

As it was getting dark, our Filipino guides flagged us down and we all parked our bikes on the side of the road to watch the flying foxes—bats the size of large owls—leaving their cave home to head out to feed. Thousands of these graceful giants passed over our heads. Our timing couldn't have been better and it was a real treat to see what we're missing every night somewhere on this island while we're playing pool or watching the sunset.

Last night, the Filipino suitors, while we tagged along as they wined and dined the Swedes, made an amazing local dinner for us. In their breezy outdoor kitchen, these cool surfer kids made coconut milk from scratch for a chicken curry, cleaned and grilled six large squids, and marinated fresh tuna in chili-infused coconut vinegar. It was an amazing and delicious feast. For dessert, we sipped "Filipino Bailey's," which tastes a lot like the Irish Bailey's, but the improvised ingredients include condensed milk, rum, instant coffee, and Milo (like Ovaltine).

Stormy Weather

We are in the middle of a four-day storm. It is raining buckets, blowing a gale, and the seas are furious. Nothing dangerous, but it really makes me think about what it would be like to be a tiny island like this during a typhoon. The palm trees take the wind gracefully though, which is what they're intended to do—like models with their hair blown around by an industrial fan, they look even more seductive with their fronds all tousled. It's fine. Our arms needed a break from catching waves anyway. The storm has given the resort a nice community spirit. We hold up in the usually open-air restaurant, which is currently boarded up to keep the sheets of rain out of our fish curry. Games of pool and scrabble and watching DVDs keep our minds off the fact that we haven't put our swimsuits on two full days. Wave watching is also a common past time. If you dare to brave the mine-field of falling coconuts, you will be rewarded with views of epic waves and accompanied by a deafening roar. Even the usually calm bay in front of our place is a mess of white caps, so that even though the water is still warm and the coral still colorful, no one is daring to go for a snorkel.

Settling In

Here's us settled into our new home. We love our room. It is cool and tiled with a good ceiling fan and mosquito proof screens. Our small front porch is good for eating green mangoes,which are a local fruit--crunchy like an apple and quite sour but not messy like orange mangoes.

Our resort is like a small neighborhood in a small village and we are getting to know a lot of our neighbors. Last night we went to the local disco--a Saturday night ritual throughout the Philippines. Our village's disco has a mud floor and a tin roof, but there is a huge sound system and a DJ and an MC. There are all kinds of etiquette we are just beginning to understand. For instance, if you are the last one on the dance floor when a song ends, you have to pay. You can also pay for a private dance. All the money goes to the village. Everyone is there: grandmas, grandpas, little kids, dogs, pigs, rural drag queens. The atmosphere is of pure fun. The Filipinos are excellent dancers and even better hosts. They do everything they can to make outsiders feel welcome. Everyone buys a liter of coke or rum or beer and contributes it to a communal pitcher. There is one glass on every table and if you are offered it you have to drink it fairly quickly because everyone around you is waiting to use the same glass. Sometimes you get a nicely balanced rum and coke, sometimes you get its foamy and less potent cousin--the beer and coke, which isn't as bad as it sounds. We had a blast, alternating cooling of in the rain and sweating on the dance floor. The highlight was Peter dancing with an eighty-year-old woman to My Humps by the Black-Eyed Peas. Maybe tied with that was the same woman doing an amazing tango with one of the drag queens.