I tucked my hair behind my ears, wisps blown by the blast of the air-conditioner above my head, and stared back at the girl on the other side of the van window, in the Philippines. Her large eyes desperately bored into mine as she pressed a tiny bamboo box against the glass, pleading for my purchase. Ten feet behind her a store clerk motioned to his coworker, who glanced up at me. I turned away from the three sets of eyes and knew suddenly that I couldn’t go home just yet.
At the end of a guided tour through the Philippines last fall, I decided to break away from the group I’d been traveling with and set off on my own for a couple of days. This trip was my first to Asia and in just seven days had made my life in Los Angeles seem years away. The sprawling mass of Manila had been my first experience in the Third World.
I was 25 and had never traveled alone outside of the U.S. before. I had been intimidated by the thought, but after a week of touring Manila and the island of Cebu in an air-conditioned bus, I knew that I needed to get out of the frosty air, and get rid of the glass windows between myself and everyone else. The idea of simply hopping a flight back to L.A. with my banana shirts and bags of dried mango seemed flat and unfulfilling.
On the last day of the tour, I rose early and arranged for a taxi to take me to the bus station. I was planning to travel six hours to Malapascua, a speck of an island north of Cebu. I had chosen Malapascua because it looked more remote than any place I’d ever been, and also because I could reach it in a single day. I had chosen Malapascua because I wanted to do something daring, completely outside my normal realm of experience.
“Where are you going?” the taxi driver asked.
“Malapascua,” I said with a transparent boldness.
“Do you have friends there?”
“No, I’m just going . . . “ I trailed off.
“You’re going alone?” After I said yes, he rephrased the question several times, in disbelief. No companions? No husband? You know someone on Malapascua? He was making me nervous. Before I’d left home, all of my friends and family expressed concern about my destination, citing terrorism and kidnappings. I held fast to my decision, refusing to let myself give in to their overwrought concern and reminding them that only the southernmost islands had terrorist troubles. Any place can be dangerous, and I didn’t want to hold myself back from the world simply for fear of it.
Part of the reason I was nervous about being on my own was that my mere presence sparked a lot of interest. Everywhere I went, people stared and pointed. As I walked through open-air markets, vendors would grab their coworkers by the elbow, hurriedly calling to their attention the six-foot-tall white girl in their midst. At first, it made me self-conscious, but by the end of the week’s tour it just seemed kind of amusing, especially knowing that at any moment I could just jump back into the safety of the van. Of course, on Malapascua, there would be no van.
The taxi driver kept his vow. He even checked with the bus driver, making him aware of my final destination. I picked a seat by the window and settled in. The bus was painted in bright primary colors, with beads and stickers and fringe covering every inch of the interior and the name “Nikki” emblazoned on the large rearview mirror. After starting up the engine, the driver donned a pair of fluorescent Ray-Bans and cranked the volume on the stereo. Thus commenced a six-hour trip through the mountains and jungles of Cebu, the ‘70s and ‘80s hits of Bruce Springsteen and ABBA blaring while the bus picked up and dropped off passengers at frightening speed. Each one, of course, glanced quickly in my direction.
“Hey, this girl wants to go to Malapascua!” he shouted to a man perched precariously on the edge of a rickety wooden boat. The captain motioned me aboard and threw out a plank for me to walk across. I squinted into the sun and looked across the expanse of water before me. I thought about my friends back in Los Angeles, all still asleep in their little apartments, alarms set for the next day’s work. Would I ever be able to properly describe this moment? The captain grinned at me, dropped his sunglasses from his forehead to his nose and cranked the boat’s outboard engine to life.
As we skimmed across the clear blue water, I lifted my face to the sun, the breeze washing away six hours of accumulated bus grime. In the distance, a speck of green glowed against the horizon: Malapascua. It felt as though the entire world was spreading out before me. I had an acute sense of place and distance, and I thought of the little metal globe sitting atop a bookshelf at home; I’d had it since I was kid. The captain sat down across from me. Why are you going to Malapascua? Where are your companions? Do you know someone there? I was getting good at this. His aunt rented huts on the beach, he said, and he offered to take me to her when we arrived.
Again, the captain was true to his word, and as soon as we docked at Bounty Beach he leaped off, beckoning me to follow him the twenty or so yards to a dozen little wood huts, all facing the water. After securing one closest to the shore (for $6) and dumping my pack on the pink mosquito-netted bed, I stood on the porch gazing out at miles and miles of gentle ocean and tiny, uninhabited green islands glittering in the afternoon sunlight.
Duncan suggested I spend the afternoon walking the length of the island. If I got tired, he said, I could just wave down a boy on a motorbike who would return me to the beach in exchange for a few pesos. I followed his advice, grabbed my camera, and headed for the village. Small huts lined one side of a dirt path, and I could smell the clean scent of rice cooking. As I walked, villagers emerged from their homes to watch me. I felt like a one-woman parade.
“Claire! Hey, Claire!” I spun around, shocked to hear my name. A woman was beckoning to me, offering a massage. In the half-hour I’d been on the island, everyone had been alerted to my presence. As I continued along, countless other villagers called out greetings, almost all using my name. I walked for a long time, from one end of the island to the other and back again. I walked through the mangrove and through Logon, past a schoolyard where all the children ran to the fence to wave and call out to me.
At sunset, I swam out to a ramshackle floating bar, where I was the only customer. I threw back a few San Miguels and chatted with Melanie, who’d been the bartender for the past six years. She told me how she lived with her family, her brothers, sisters, mother, and father. Her father had grown too old to fish anymore, and since Melanie was the oldest sibling she supported the family by working at the bar. That night I dined with three Peace Corps workers at one of Malapascua’s two family-run restaurants. Aside from us, there were only two other tourists on the island, a German couple getting certified in scuba.
The next morning, after breakfast, Melanie appeared outside my hut and asked to take me snorkeling. We set off for the opposite end of the island, but stopped by her home first. She lived in a two-bedroom hut with seven family members, all of whom were gathered to greet me. Melanie grabbed a worn set of goggles and led me down to the beach. I had rented fins and a mask and snorkel from Duncan’s. Melanie, however, waded into the water in denim shorts, a tank top, flip-flops, and her goggles.
We snorkeled for hours, pointing and laughing at the brightly colored, oversized starfish, poking our heads up to wave at the village fisherman catching that night’s dinner. The previous week the air-conditioned van, buying gifts for my friends back home, my Purell hand sanitizer seemed like a long time ago.
Days later, on the flight back to Los Angeles, mine was the lone overhead light on in a sea of sleeping passengers. My sunburned shoulders ached as I hunched over a world map I’d found in the back of the flight magazine. Where can I go next? I wondered, knowing that no matter where I ended up, I would have the confidence to stray off the path, to see the world through my own eyes. This was the best souvenir I’d ever brought home.
From Cebu, take a taxi to the North Terminal Station and catch a bus to Maya Port (takes about four hours and costs 190 pesos). Once you arrive in Maya Port, take a public boat to Malapascua (25 minutes, 50 pesos).
where to stay on Malapascua: There are several options on Bounty Beach. Tropical and Sunset Resorts offers oceanside cottages with private bathrooms and fans for around 500 pesos.
diving: Some of the finest diving in the Philippines can be found off Malapascua, including Monad Shoal, where you can dive among the rarely sighted Thresher shark. Bubble 07 dive shop (Bubble07.com) is located on Bounty Beach and offers daily trips to dive sites as well as full course instruction and PADI certification.
Photos by
Claire Smith
After a few minutes of thought, the driver seemed pleased with my choice. Filipinos are some of the friendliest people I’ve met, and all those I’d spoken with seemed genuinely thrilled to have an American traveler exploring their country. The driver promised me that when we got to the bus station, he would park the car and accompany me to the correct bus. I smiled at his reflection in the rearview mirror.
As we neared the tip of Cebu, I realized I was the only remaining passenger. My heart beat a little faster as I realized that I had no idea what to do once I reached Malapascua. A teenage boy collecting bus fares sat down next to me. Where are you going? Why? Where are your companions? Do you know someone on Malapascua? Again, I rattled off the answers . . . Malapascua…just to visit . . . no . . . no, I’m just going by myself. After an initial bout of bafflement, he settled on looking pleased and offered to show me the boat that would take me to Malapascua once we arrived at the docks.
I wandered down the beach and stopped at a dive shop called Bubble 07 to chat with the owner, a British expat named Duncan. Malapascua is two miles long and one mile wide, Duncan explained, pointing to a map on a nearby wall. There is one village, Logon, and there are no cars or paved roads. The running water only works twice a day, so you have to keep a bucket handy, and the electricity shuts off at midnight. I had never been anywhere like this: no fast food, no bank, no Internet cafe.
THE LOWDOWN
getting there: Philippine Airlines offers daily non-stop flights from Los Angeles to Manila and from Manila to Cebu City. Philippineairlines.com, 800 I FLY PAL. Also check out Philippine Department of Tourism for travel tips at wowphilippines.com.ph.