fullman*

Because Jae omitted certain details, I feel compelled to make this confession: somebody farted in the van. Not once but twice. It was so strong and life-threatening, but the driver adamantly refused to open the windows, as if he wanted his passengers to have a bonding moment. It was only after the second assault that he finally relented. By then Clang/Christine was already spraying her perfume all over the place to mask the coma-inducing odor.

We were on our way to Sabang, which is two hours away from Naga City. The boat ride from Sabang to Guijalo Port, the gateway to the islands of Caramoan, would take another two hours. We junked the tour package that would have costed each of us around P7,000 for a Do-It-Yourself trip, and in return we had a weekend of adventure, scented road trips, hours of chismisan and Jae’s constant shrieking.  

Traveling to Caramoan was an orientation of the rules that govern the Philippines’ public transportation system. There is no system in the first place. Expect hours of waiting, of haggling with drivers, of jeepney rides that affirm the laws of science. Ports seem to have been built without the help of modern engineering and without considering tidal movements: in Sabang, passengers have to be carried to the boat by muscular men because the pier is useless during low tide.

On our way back to Naga City, we took a jeep because we no longer wanted to be gassed. Perhaps thirty minutes into the ride, a woman hopped in with a thick roll of barbed wire, which was wisely put on the floor of the vehicle. In a clear demonstration of Newtonian physics, the barbed wire would slide back and forth as the jeep sped along, a portable instrument of torture that was bent on teaching us a lesson.

island hopping in Caramoan

In front of a public hospital, a young man carried by his mother and another man boarded the jeep. The mother explained that her son met an accident while riding his motorbike, which earned the sympathy of the other passengers who willingly scooted away to give the man some space so he could lie down. A few minutes later, he vomitted. The jeep suddenly smelt of alcohol. Everybody was cursing, sympathy quickly turning into irritation. The mother explained that his son is not a drunkard, na-barkada lang.  A lady sitting near the man moved away and sat beside Jae, and soon enough she was covering her mouth, acting as if she, too, was about to puke because of the stench. Which brings me to another public transportation rule: each ride is a feast of the senses, and treat each trip as if it were your last.

The climb to Matukad's peak.

Caramoan is all about adventure. On our second day, we went island hopping despite the bad weather. We took a boat that could accomodate five people, and the waves were large enough to convert me into a god-fearing heterosexual and Jae into, well, a shrieking version of herself, which is quite normal. Clang/Christine was hungry after the boat ride, and that, too, is normal.

Matukad Island is by far Caramoan’s destination par excellence. Forget about Gota beach, which only became popular because Survivor France was shot there (they are currently filming Survivor Israel in Gota beach, and later, Survivor Turkey and Survivor Bulgaria). Inspite of the big waves that we had to endure to get there, Matukad was worth it – it was secluded, with a long stretch of fine, white sand, and if you are willing to climb the  razor-sharp limestone formation at the end of the beach, you’d get to see the hidden and allegedly enchanted lagoon inside. The top of the island also offers  a rewarding view of the Caramoan’s islands, only that when reached the peak our hands were actually shaking due to stress induced by the climb.

I suppose one goes to Caramoan for its roughness –  No fine print, everything in bold letters, all matters amplified, from the friendship that prodded you to get there to that wanderlust that gave you the final push. If the act of abandoning one’s self has another name, it is Caramoan.

From L to R: Clang/Christine, Bagas, and Jae