traveling into the future, as in the philippines [part 2].

CEBU CITY, CEBU, PHILIPPINES, 12 DECEMBER 2007, 9:15 a.m.

It is the last hour before we depart for Bohol and I am torn between soaking in the bougie paradise of the Shangri-La Mactan resort, knitting, and taking some time to write. Bummed I can’t take photos because it’s so humid—the lens fogs up instantly. My family last came to Cebu 10 years ago and visited this same place—a muddy mess of a backyard where now there is impeccable landscaping, half a dozen swimming pools steps from a private beach, and a handful of hotel employees watching your every move, ready to wait on your hand and foot every 15 meters. Weird.

There are hardly any Filipino guests save my ma’s class reunion. Funny that on an island in the Philippines I see more Koreans and Japanese than Pinoys. Apparently this area is a popular destination wedding and honeymoon combo. Perhaps it’s an anniversary spot too—there are a few toddlers around, blasting water guns at the kiddie pools while their parents look on, bored. I love love love that the Korean honeymooners have matching outfits. Some have obscure phrases emblazed on the backs of t-shirts, things like “LON DON” (last names, maybe?). Others have longer poetic waxings in true his-and-hers fashion: Where is s/he?” reads one couple’s chests. “S/he who laughs and loves and is my heart.” And on the backs, with respective arrows: “Here is my Romeo/Juliet.” Lots of pink hearts and Hawaiian floral bathing trunks. I heart it.

PANGLAO ISLAND, BOHOL, PHILIPPINES, 13 DECEMBER 2007, 7:40 a.m.

The American Christmas tunes throw me off as I sip coffee in a thatched roof gazebo literally over the edge of a small cliff just off a private white-sand beach. Three small pools snake around the ledge just below me. The morning tide has littered little treasures all over the beach, from shells the size of my fist to translucent crabs no bigger than my thumb. Fishing boats have been abandoned on what the night before was still sea and is now sand. Go ahead and hate me.

This is day four of my ma’s 40th Class Reunion Jubilee. She keeps calling herself and her classmates Jubilarians. She calls me her ya-ya (nursemaid). Yesterday we ferried from Cebu, famed for the fateful encounter between then-unknown Chief Silapu-Lapu and a Portuguese fella named Maghelan, who got a little too big for his britches. I guess the encounter was more between Silapu-Lapu’s stick and Ferny’s shin, but details, shmetails. The ferry between Cebu and Tagbilaran in Bohol was the typical mess of stray children and suitcases and prayers announced over the PA system prior to disclosing the location of our lifejackets (should our prayers have not been answered, I guess). I was kind of bummed that there was no deck—instead I was sandwiched between my ma and a greasy window. Luckily, the film Evan Almighty was playing (which we watched on the flight four days before from Minneapolis to Tokyo, maybe you missed the sarcasm in my typing), which kept the snoring passengers entertained, I’m assuming. I kept my eyes trained on the horizon and my headphones set at some old Blue Scholars tunes, conscious of the fact I couldn’t figure out what direction we were going.

After a bit I squatted on my seat, slipped past my (snoring) mother, and bought a bottle of water at the concession counter near the back. The deckhand said something to me in Tagalog, and I was really startled not to hear something in English. He tried again. Where are you from? [The perpetual question. If that’s not the first, it’s usually: Why aren’t you married yet?]. The States, I answer. Twenty-five pesos, he says. I hand him two tens and a five and the poor guy looks so confused. Conferring with his buddies, he decides that my five, which went out of circulation who knows how long ago, is acceptable. Last trip back home, I say. Errrybody laughs. That’s the third time in two days.

Joke-jokelang:
Why is this island called Bohol?
Because Cebu was taken.