Palawan – The last frontier

I was relieved to leave the environs of Manila, despite it having some points of interest, it is after all simply another crowded city, overflowing with slums, poverty and prostitution. Crime rates are high and even in the tourist quarter destitution is rife. One pleasant surprise is the efforts made to keep a semblance of cleanliness around the streets. I didn’t venture into the worst of the slums, they maybe not completely out of bounds, but visiting them is not really a sight-seeing tour. During my wanderings I found everyone polite and friendly, even when turning away the beggars and hustlers there was no bad feelings, it was all part and parcel of every day life. The last twenty-four hours a continuous downpour of torrential rain put paid to casual wanderings. Apparently the rain didn’t stop, within a couple of days of leaving vast areas of the city flooded, up to waist height. My timing was damned near perfect. (Photo: No laughing matter, they're taking a leaf out the American's book - Manila airport, Philippines)

Flights are dirt cheap, and hassle free. When all passengers are boarded the planes take off, often well before schedule. The rain was so heavy that umbrellas were provided from the transport bus up the steps into the plane. Ground staff, soaked to the bone, set up a relay to allow us a virtually dry boarding. I wasn’t going to bother, until faced with a virtual wall of water at the door of the bus. Thankfully arriving at Puerto Princesa, Palawan’s capital, bright sunshine welcomed us, albeit a hot and humid sunshine. I had to laugh at the antics of the only other white guy on the plane. After a brief greeting between us, and the young European woman, he turned his back on me and monopolised her complete attention. The last I saw of them they were queuing up to procure private transport up north, to the very busy resort of El Nido. Maybe it was short sighted of them not to check whether I might be headed in the same direction, therefore sharing the cost of transport. I got the impression the growing bulge in his trousers was worth the extra money to him. (Photo: Edge of slum area in, overlooked by very plush hotel - Puerto Prinseca, Palawan)

Puerto is a relatively small, but bustling, island capital. Jeepney’s (gaily decorated, open sided minibuses) and tricycles (motorbike and sidecar combos) make up the bulk of the traffic. To be honest they’re so cheap it almost makes a mockery of walking, the locals don’t. My main reason for staying a few days was to draw out sufficient money to last at least a month in Port Barton, a small fishing village on the west coast. My guesthouse was situated on the edge of the shantytown occupied by the poverty stricken fishermen. Advice not to wander alone through the area came too late, I’d been there and done it already. Personally I failed to see the problem, having sat and consumed home brewed wine with a group of old guys. They were delighted to share their booze and take the opportunity to converse with a foreigner. They hold their age well, one of them was within a month of being the same age as me, he wasn’t as grey either. He shrugged his shoulders at this, ‘I’m Filipino,’ was his simple reasoning. (Photo: Economy class travel by tricycle, eight people all told - The road to Roxas, North Palawan)

There are scores of simple street stalls, serving a choice of pre-prepared dishes at rock bottom prices, less than a quid (£1 for the uninitiated) with rice included. Invariably there’s no telling what each dish consists of. My first attempt tasted fine, until I came upon a hand sized slab of fatty, boiled pigskin. I had to at least try some, it was horrid. The locals insist the fat holds all the flavour, I won’t argue with them but from now on I’ll leave the flavoursome parts to them. And my second cheap meal? It was much better, entrails cooked in pig’s blood. Don’t be squeamish, it was little more than minced black pudding. Though I must admit the vendor was surprised at my choice, and kept checking that it was OK as I scoffed the lot. The only, slightly, iffy bits were the little lumps of cartilage, they tended to be a bit crunchy. If I’m honest, the Philippines isn’t exactly renowned for its culinary delights. (Photo: Sticky underfoot - Road to Port Barton. Palawan)

Being determined not to piss up all of my time over here, I only hit the bars one night in Puerto. At the invite of the owner, a ‘geezer’ from the Isle of Wight called G, I spent most the night at his Reggae bar. We finished off at a club hosting a variety of cover bands, damned if I can remember what music they were covering, but they were fronted by a couple of very attractive young Filipinas, who also had excellent voices. Needless to say the beer kept flowing and the night took on a definitely cheery, if raucous, overtone. The dwarf (forgive me if this phrase is politically incorrect) who waddled onto stage was simply a punter, but was welcomed like a long lost friend. The shapely lady boy from amongst our midst made the most of joining him, she went down a storm and had plenty of young guys from the audience trying their damnedest to catch a glimpse of what was barely hidden under an ultra short, and tight skirt. All in all a great night! The last I remembered was sitting with the short fella, arms around each other’s shoulders sharing a beer. (Photo: Playtime when the catch comes in - Port Barton, Palawan)

So you could say Puerto was pretty uneventful. I won’t expand on that particular evening’s events, mainly because of run-ins with the ugly antics of seedy sex tourists. I’ve said enough about such people plenty of times in the past, they turn my stomach, so let’s just leave it at that. Boy wasn’t I ever hungover the following morning though. I’m sure glad it wasn’t my last night in the city, travelling for five hours on a clapped out old bus would not have been much fun. As It was I had a couple of days to recover. Acclimatising to the tropics again took it out of me more than the beer (honest it did), all I’ve needed to do is sit down and try reading and I fall into a deep slumber. Is it worse as I get older? Can’t say I’ve noticed either way, I think in days gone by I was more likely to celebrate on arrival abroad than I am now; says the man who’s just been elaborating about his drunken debauchery. (Photo: Company in the shower, a rather large friend - Port Barton, Palawan)

But now onto Port Barton, though it wasn’t quite as simple as that! The road to get here is appalling. At this time of year it’s not usual for the bus to need pushing out of the mud, we were lucky due to the exceptionally good skills of our driver. There again, he does make the trip every day, one direction or the other. The place is a sleepy little fishing village, with a long and
beautiful sandy beach that’s excellent for swimming. Due to this a well-spaced string of guesthouses have sprung up around the crescent of sand. They are not overly ugly, most use local designs and materials, and fit in nicely with the environment. The beach is clean, there are more locals walking along it than tourists, more fishing boats than deck chairs (actually there are no deck chairs on the beach at all), most the people in the water are local kids. Though at the moment it’s low season, even in the height of the season there are comparatively few foreigners. But you know, it all adds to the laid back feel of the place. There are no banks, no ATMs, no multi-storied buildings. It has a lovely mix of tourists and locals, everyone seems happy and content, and if the pace was any slower we’d be going backwards in time. I made the right choice by coming here first, but will I be able to leave the place. Only time will tell! (Photo: Watching the tide come in - Port Barton beach, Palawan)