Playing castaway

By GREG CLARKE

There are three of us in the canoe on the 15km trip to Pamilacan Island. I am at the front sitting barely above water. Though bamboo outriggers slice torpedo like through the small swell, frequent white caps break across the bow - I am soaked. When halfway into the crossing the engine cuts out, I take advantage of drifting's relative calm and remove my water-filled socks and shoes.

I had not come to the Philippines to ride canoes, rather I was enticed to the country by the thought of near limitless tropical islands - there are 7107 in the archipelago. Though cruise ships ply routes between larger ports, many islanders rely still on outrigger canoe for travel. Despite the soakings and breakdowns, the various forms of the outrigger are, like the white sand beaches and fishing villages, part of the island-hopping experience.

Now, around 100km southwest of Cebu, capital of the Visayan island group, it is low tide and we complete the journey from Baclayon to Pamilacan by wading through sea grass to shore.

Ferdinand Magellan claimed this country for Spain but was killed by a disgruntled local chief soon after. My welcome is far friendlier and I am shown to a thatched roof bungalow built only metres from the beach.

This bungalow has glassless windows, a mattress and is surrounded by palms moving to a breeze's whim. It comes with a bucket and ladle shower and three meals. There are no cars or telephones. A Peace Corps couple are the only other foreigners.

These fishermen are famed locally. Traditionally they have hunted manta ray and more recently, whale shark. But now there are hunting bans and on Pamilacan, life is changing. From March to May these waters are rich with whales, dolphins and whale sharks and with WWF encouragement two outriggers have been built for a fledgling industry based on watching not hunting.

There are few reasons to leave Pamilacan, but the allure of other islands is impossible to ignore. There is a collection of small islands off nearby Bohol Island's north coast, and dwelling on popular notions of Crusoe's ordeal, I hunt the surrounding waters for a castaway-like islet. There is a treeless sand bank with two huts built on stilts. But many "islands" appear little more than jutting rock or mangrove-like swamp.

Disappointed I search my map for a new destination and the Camotes Islands beckon.

"Special trip," says Mr Olimpio cheerily answering my inquiry about passage to the Camotes. His smile beams but most of it seems hidden behind an oversized pair of sunglasses. Of more appeal than the glasses is the canoe's canopy - protection from the sun as well as the soaking from the sea. With no regular transport, we strike a "special trip" deal; and I charter an outrigger for a suitably exorbitant fee.

After four hours, a strengthening wind whips the tranquil waters into an obstacle course of mounting swell. In Moby Dick, Herman Melville writes of sea's sweet mystery and gently awful stirrings speaking of a hidden soul. Yet all I sense is a remorseless vulnerability. Mr Olimpio expertly picks his way through gaps in the breaking swell, and moments from land I resolve that the barest threat to a landlubber's survival is an inherent part of the sea's mystique.

The Camotes has two main islands. Poro is connected by causeway to Pacijan. I spend a few days finding mostly deserted beaches. Late one afternoon, having spent the day swimming at a cove strewn with waterlogged coconuts, I return to my lodge. A salesman invites me to join him at a garden table.

We buy a fish barely past its last stages of tail flapping, grill it, then take turns tearing at meaty flesh and reduce it to a head and skeleton. Washing in the sea I decide it is

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Playing castaway


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Caption1: MILES AWAY: Simple thatched bungalows sit right on the beach, and come with meals included. PICTURE / GREG CLARKE


time to move on. In The Beach, Alex Garland writes, "I learnt something very important - escape through travel works." It is two weeks since I have worn shoes and socks.

I board a canoe that is the jumbo jet of outriggers, the first stage of travel to Malapascua: northwest of Leyte my map shows Malapascua as a dot in the Visaya Sea. There are about 50 passengers on this oversized canoe. There are also water buffalo and an enormous pig. At Ormoc (Leyte) the buffalo are rolled off the boat, splash into the water, and swim to shore. The squealing pig is dragged and pushed every inch of the way to land.

Next morning a bus takes me 80km across a part of Leyte - the island where Macarthur fulfilled his "I shall return" vow. Along the way we pass trucks that had once carried liberating troops. My fellow passengers seem unimpressed by World War II relics, and though a dirt road threatens to shake free the few remaining nuts and bolts holding this bus together, most of them sleep.

Malapascua (Spanish for "bad Christmas") was named by Spaniards who were stranded on the island one December. Yet the island is as seductive as the map's dot promised; a walk-around-in-a-few-hours place with the necessary tropical attributes.

Malapascua, though, is in the throes of commercial evolution. There are resort-style bungalows and diving tours to the wrecks of Japanese ships. Still, the charm of this island is only partly cultivated. Near a beachfront bar is a fishing village where seaweed is not raked from the sand.

While beachcombing I meet a French couple who plan travel to Bantayan Island. Invited along I find, after a delightfully uneventful boat ride, much that is appealing, not the least of which is the apparently unfailing friendliness of the people. But after the intimacy of Malapascua, comparably enormous Bantayan, with cars and trucks does not seem right.

I begin a search for another appealing Malapascua-like dot. Doubtless there will be a canoe heading to whichever island I choose to travel.

PhilippinesTourism