Days 6-7- Never on A Good Friday

Unmanned: Honesty Cafe is just what it is. Pick your choice of merchandise and drop your payment in the box. And no, there are no surveillance cameras, either.

Today I sat on board a tug boat smaller than yesterday’s. And this time, there was a closet on board. Yes, a two-door, wooden clothes closet. And about a dozen local tourists who were as eager as we were to get to Sabtang island.

"I don’t have a very good feeling about this,” I uttered the words travelers regard as an omen. It just killed the romance. But off we went cavorting with yet another round of rain and waves stronger than the previous days’. In the middle of the sea, I amused myself by reading other people’s faces. Some were outright scared, others were trying to be brave by putting on fearsome smiles, some felt nauseous, yet another was too nonchalant letting the splashing of the waves engulf her as if she was being filmed on MTV. Mine, I guess, crossed between looking constipated and excited to get on dry land. The mere sight of the approaching island was comfort enough, never mind that it looked like a dot from where we were, but hell, should we all get thrown overboard, at least there was somewhere we could swim to. Somewhere other than marine life existed.

By the time we got the port, the sun was already shining and we were all wet. In Sabtang island, there were no more than three vehicles plying the few cemented roads. We haggled our way to renting a truck from an ordinary looking fellow scratching his tummy (turned out to be the town mayor) and hired a driver who would take us around the island (happened to be a guy running for public office as a councilor.)

Sabtang could be aptly described not by its scenic terrain but by its atmosphere. This is the kind of an oblivious town tucked far away from the modern cities where wanted criminals could easily hide and never be found out (think a young and dashing Al Pacino as Michael Corleone hiding in Palermo from killer Mafiosos in The Godfather). This is also a sleepy town where you could kill time by taking long walks on dirt roads, stroll along hills, and sit the afternoon away overlooking the maddening waves of the seas. Which was what we pretty much did after our boat almost capsized, rendering us stranded yet again.

It was a Good Friday and we were planning to go back to Basco at day’s end. At 3 p.m. right about the mass was starting, we boarded the same boat we took going there. Low tide was settling in, the bottom of the boat hit a rock as twin waves came crashing in all at the same time. I was a mere iota inside a pendulum, swaying left to right hanging on for dear life as water filled half of the boat. Amidst panic, one passenger after another jumped off. Good thing though, that we were still at the port when this happened, where the water was only waist-deep. My adrenaline was pumping so hard it turned my legs into jelly.

We were told later that superstition has it that no boats are ever allowed to cross the seas on a Good Friday, in reflection of Christ’s death. Quite appropriately at the Hour of Mercy, we were spared of anything grave other than my dying camera and wet rolls of film.

marooned, gazumped, stumped, and all wet, stranded yet again in Sabtang island (photo by ferds)

We were taken in by a very generous couple who gave us everything we needed and took nothing in return. It was quite amusing how they would always tell us not to expect too much for they could only serve a humble dinner, but actually turned out serving up a feast, that on our second night at their dinner table, my friends and I were jesting that we were hapless victims being fattened up by our host before getting butchered and boiled in a witch’s brew. Here we tasted various preparations of dibang or flying fish, an abundant catch this side of the South China Sea. And a very generous (and wildly amusing) helping of stories from our hosts’ olden days of courtship. The days and nights of Sabtang are indeed long.

The people of Sabtang pride themselves of the occurrence of zero crime, save for an isolated case of crime of passion. On one of those days while we were waiting to hear news of a boat that could ferry us back to Basco, we stepped out of our host’s house and left all our belongings inside, including wet bills and notes to dry out. The doors and windows were never locked. We came back with only the soft winds touching our belongings.