More creative ways of being sorry for your sins
My friend, AJ and I decided that Lighthouse hotel was too crammed with the sardonic holy week merry goers. We pack our bags and hit the road to Zambales with a standing invitation to go to Anawangin Island. The one hour and thirty minute drive was fairly okay albeit the masochists punishing themselves agitated the living shit out of AJ. More than the sight of blood and gore, it is the thought of being splashed by it as I insisted on opening the windows to get a close up shot of the “sinners” whipping their asses sorry. It was a rather entertaining/educational drive to Pundakit, Anawangin Island’s jump off.
Despite the crowd at Pundakit, the jump off to Anawangin is still impeccably clean and very well maintained
After the bloody show, we passed the time singing The Corrs’ “Don’t Say You Love Me” to Pointer Sisters’ “Jump”. Not really your ideal soundtrack but when you start noticing the spectacular landscapes and the perfect beach weather, it doesn’t really matter. A toll gate that issues a day pass for 40Php breaks our concert series as the toll gate operator who offered us a boat ride to the island gladly left the “toll booth” and escorted us to the parking area. He advices to bring all necessities with us especially drinking water. I got a plastic bag full of bottled water, lunch for 2 and a bottle of Tanduay while AJ re-packed his trolley with his version of necessities: laptop, iPod and SLR camera. The two-way boat ride costs 1200Php that you pay later when they pick you up on the Island. The boat men’s rule is unwritten but strictly followed. Whoever brings you to the Island takes you out of the Island. This prevents them from stealing each other’s clients and ensures a harmonious working environment.
The pine tree-decked campsite
The 20 minute boat ride was very pleasant. The water was calm, the sky was blue and the view was yet again a sight to behold. Finally, we reach a cove decked unexpectedly with pine trees. My first impression as I land my feet on the fine sand and clear water was this has got to be where Palawan meets Bukidnon (Or Boracay meets Baguio…whichever gives you the better visuals). Beautiful.
We weave through hundreds of happy campers frolicking without a care on the scorching hot sand looking for our host, Dada. In between searching was the dawning that there are absolutely no available rooms to rent much less a permanent fixture other than a line of toilets. With his trademark long hair and sleeved out tattoo our only hope for survival was not all that hard to find. I was overjoyed to see him. The sincere welcome from Dada’s friends probably came from pity as AJ and I looked desperately unprepared for camping. One candid comment came from a near by group directed towards AJ’s hard case trolley “Ano yan kapatid? Refrigerator?”. I nudge AJ and told him to pretend to be a Japanese tourist so he can get away with his luggage faux pas. The group vacated one tent offering it to be our accommodation for our stay in Anawangin. We quickly adjust to the environment and start socializing with Dada’s friends and even with the neighboring group who continuously made a joke out of AJ’s “refrigerator”.
Skim boarding is waaaaay harder than it looks
Dada, AJ and I went for a stroll and came across a lone skim boarder who gladly offered us free lessons. As Dada and I learned about timing and balance, AJ snapped away documenting our very first experience with a skim board. (To skim boarders all over the world, I salute you. Your choice of sport looks so damn easy but certainly isn’t. ) Eating and drinking is by far the only staple activity in this time of day. It was too hot to be out in the sun and the sand is just very unfriendly. I bring out my bottle of Tanduay and got the drinking spree started. The rowdy tattooed out all-male group who turned out to be an all gay group/seasoned climbers came over to drink with us. I notice Rasta Jay, with his waist long dreads, listening intently to Kundiman. His peculiar penchant for the olden Filipino love songs reveal a stunning realization, when Metro sexual AJ, Rasta Jay and the rowdy gangster looking gay group started singing every single line. Apparently this musical genre under the influence of rum transcends all stereotypes! Soon as the sun tamed down a little bit we decided to play Frisbee. Let me tell you that playing a mean game of Frisbee in between drinking and smoking is not a good idea. Some just collapsed on the sand complaining of stitches in their stomachs, Dada just started puking. Rasta Jay, …well…he was just really sitting pretty and moving at glacial pace on a corner playing with sand the whole time. The all gay ensemble was desperately gasping for air and gave up in the middle of the game. Yours truly got a knee injury. Everyone gave up on the athletic aspirations and just retired wading on the cool clear water and now sizzled out sand.
AJ's accommodation
The absence of a decent shower room is compensated by a couple of old school “poso” situated where everyone might as well be eating peanuts and drinking scotch. It is fairly a free show so be wary of wiggling your behind too much. You might just get a well deserved but unsolicited applause.
After dinner we grab the necessities for our drinking spree before we headed out for the beach: Bottles of Grand Matador and water for chaser. This is by far the provincial venue that sells the most expensive bottle of Grand Matador (120php) and pack of cigarettes (100php). I should’ve taken the boatman’s advice seriously. The ambience though is incomparable and as per Visa, “priceless”. We drank by the beach sitting on the cool, fine sand under a full moon lit sky. I didn’t mind paying for a couple more ridiculously priced “Granmas”.
Our hosts dada, rasta jay, ancel, joy and dugo
For some bizarre reason, camping holds no place for hostility. In the back of your head there’s a nagging feeling that sooner or later MAYBE you will need something, no matter how small from somebody else. Call it survival instinct. The activity leaves you vulnerable and stripped off what you have or what you do for a living. In a place like this, who you are does not really matter.
Tired and tipsy, some headed to their respective tents to sleep. I, on the other hand, stretched out on the beach, under the full moon listening to Sting’s “Why Should I Cry For You” on my Ipod until I fell asleep. Of course, everything in between sound tripping and falling asleep is as pleasant as pleasant could be. I’d have to say, my accommodation for the night was literally and figuratively a million stars.
