An extended stay at Kalanggaman Island (an hour by banca from the town of Palompon in Leyte) presents more than a few logistical concerns. Is there electricity? (No.) Fresh water? (Only what you bring.) Toilet and/or bathroom? (Yes, but consider previous question.) Mobile coverage? (As long as your devices stay powered, sure.) Cabanas? (Yes.) Rooms? (No.) A canteen, at least? (Something like that, i.e., don’t count on it.)
The sooner you accept that you’ve left the modern world (or what passes for it in these parts) behind, the better off you are. It’s not that hard — at first. It’s a beautiful island, often compared to Boracay, albeit smaller and much less crowded. (How much less? We were the only ones who stayed there that night.) If that actually appeals to you (since the most common complaint re Boracay is about the crowds, even as complainers also admit that people-watching is an integral part of their experience). The isolation certainly appealed to me, and I enjoyed our time there. Like I always say, I don’t get to spend enough time with my friends these days, even if all we do is talk about the same old stuff.
Speaking of time, it’s amazing how it seems to slow down when you’re on a (semi-)deserted island. Without the distractions of TV or the Internet, you talk. And talk. And, in my case, become a little more sociable. That was how we came to know more about our boat hand/go-to guy, a good-natured lad named Raymond. He told us about his girl troubles while seeing to the fire in the grill, his tale growing progressively seamier as our food cooked.
Raymond got his girlfriend pregnant when she was all of 16. Then she’d had the fetus “taken care of,” and that spelled the end of the relationship. “Thank God for that,” we chorused. “At least you had the sense not to get married.”
Oh, but they’re planning to. They’re back together, see. ”But you’re only 23!” Jenny exclaimed. “What’s the rush?”
“You tell him, ma’am,” echoed Raymond’s fellow deck hands. “He doesn’t even get to keep his pay; the baji frisks him soon as the boat touches land.”
The baji (girl) is now 18 and pregnant anew. “So?” Jenny said. “That was no reason for me to marry.” And earlier she had wondered why her daughter, only slightly older than Raymond, could still be single. “And what were you thinking, anyway? You were better off without her.”
“It was her mother, ma’am,” he said, “begged me to take her back.”
“Doesn’t it tell you something that her own mother is so eager to get rid of her?” I said. “Move that piece to the side, will you? It’s burning.”
“Ay, dong,” Connie piped in. As the only married woman in the group and mother to two teenagers, she has a nose for the practical. “Are you even sure the child is yours?”
Now that wiped the grin off Raymond’s face. After all, he’d also mentioned that the girl was using. “You know how it works, don’t you?” Connie added. “Guy gets a girl high and… well, you follow.”
“And here you are on Kalanggaman,” I said. “Guess who’s dipping into the honeypot while you’re working your ass off?”
By now you could probably tell that I’m not going to give you a tour of the island. I never even ventured into the sandbar, impressive-looking as that was. The way I see it, I have the heat from the grill to thank for my tan, not the sun. Some tips: Bring lots of sunblock. And more charcoal or firewood than you need. Same goes for drinking water, ice, and lights. And blankets — nights can get awfully cold out there.
And while I’m here, I want to commend the Palompon tourism office for expediting our travel arrangements. One call was all it took. Boat rates are standardized to save guests the hassle of having to haggle. And the tourist center/terminal is spacious and comfortable (they also serve lunch there), although the toilet (the ladies’, at least, according to my companions) left something to be desired. We paid ₱225 each (₱200 for a day pass).
The Palompon wet market is a mere hop away from the tourist center, so get some fresh fish and produce before boarding the banca. I settled for swordfish (the selection was limited that morning). I also came across pakó (fiddlehead fern) I couldn’t ignore; they were so fresh it was a crime to make anything but salad out of them (despite Jenny’s suggestion of adobo), so then I had to find coconut milk as well. Therese bought some labtingaw, lightly salted (supposedly, but I found them too salty) semi-dried fish.
Lunch consisted of grilled pork in Cajun rub, turmeric fried fish, and pakó salad with salted duck egg, with a side of pickled ampalaya and iba (bilimbi) sautéed in fermented shrimp paste. For dinner, lighter fare: bucatini with walnut pesto and chili, and flatbread pizza two ways (vegetarian and non-). Ever made pizza from scratch in the middle of watery nowhere using only a grill? With flatbread, you can! I would have taken photos, but it was quite dark by then.
The next morning I made fried rice from the labtingaw and leftovers. Darn, I didn’t think to bring eggs! List fail! Therese had Raymond boil water for coffee, and so I had to point out to her that we didn’t have that, too. Or the mugs to serve it in. Amazingly enough, the canteen had both. It didn’t carry charcoal, drinking water, oil, condiments, toilet paper, or any form of junk food, but someone had made sure they had coffee in stock! Don’t think I was not thankful for that. Save for the kids, we had all slept fitfully, mostly for the biting cold, but when the lamps ran out of kerosene in the middle of the night, Connie’s paranoia got the best of her. There we were, out in the open, and she just happened to recall seeing a shovel outside our cottage earlier that day.
“Oh, Mommy,” Mannix had told her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Daaaad! You think I don’t know how I sound? Just go find that shovel.”
If only it were that simple for Raymond. He was unusually pensive for most of the return trip. I expected to see his girlfriend waiting at the breakwater — then we would’ve had more things to find fault with — but no such luck. We gave Raymond a hefty tip after reminding him to stash it someplace his GF couldn’t get at, and then we were off, wondering how much (if any) of our advice had registered. It’s funny how quickly invested you can become in a stranger’s love life when you’re not too preoccupied with your own (and that’s if you have one). But now that I’ve given it some thought, what right did we have to shoot down Raymond’s dream of happiness before it could take flight, no matter how misguided it may have seemed to us? No wonder they shoot dogs on Kalanggaman. I’m not kidding — they prey on the birds. Raymond told me that, too.
This post has no comments.
Post a Comment