Malapascua island is only 2.5km long. The main part has two main stretches of beach with a little village in the middle. As tiny as it is, it boasts a Catholic church, a karaoke bar (or videoke as it’s called here) a cock fighting ring and, apparently, an invisible (to the non-local eye, at least) yet serious drug problem involving some sort of local crystal meth. I didn’t see any cock fighting, but I did see the poor roosters. They are everywhere, tied to posts by a foot. They crow pretty much all day and all night and there are so many of them, that I named the first place I stayed at – a loose collection of beach bungalow “semis” — Angry Bird Village. The church I heard long before I saw it, while walking along the beach on my first to the island, only I mistaked the mass for a really bad filipino karaoke (or “videoke” as it’s known locally) sung by a drunk man. As it happens, the Videoke is actually on the other side of the village and it’s mostly women I heard singing. The church, as it happens, has a massive churchyard and on weekends the locals wheel giant speakers into the yard and have a dance party with what sounds like dance remixes of mainstream hits with the occasional old people’s home style bossa nova tune thrown in for good measure.
Malapascua is definitely a diver’s island, which is to say the main reason people go there is to dive with the thresher sharks that frequent a few dive sites within easy reach by boat. There are also some good spots with reef sharks and corals, though there is a lot of dynamite fishing in the area, so many of the sites are kinda sad on that front.
Divers tend to get up early (the shark dive trips leave the island at around 5AM daily) and when they are not in the water or at the dive centre sorting out their kit, they are usually getting thrashed on cheap booze at one of the local beachfront bars. The main topic of conversation in the bars and restaurants on the island is diving – did you see sharks? How many? How big were they? This reminds me of the time when…
Nowadays, most people are also armed with underwater cameras and an endless supply of photos and videos to share as well.
To get to Malapascua from Cebu City you need to catch a 4 hour bus ride from the North bus terminal to a town called Maya and then take one of the little island hopping boats, which takes another 30 or 40 minutes. It’s not a particularly pleasant journey. Even less so when it’s chucking it down with rain.
Ceres liners are yellow buses that are the most plentiful and are also apparently considered the safest. Considering one of the other companies that serves Maya is called “Rough Riders”, I think Ceres will do. There are aircon buses and non-aircon. The non-aircon buses are only 10pesos cheaper, but seem to leave more frequently and when we get there there’s actually one leaving within 15 minutes, so my gracious hosts leave me in my seat on the bus and head back home, as it’s not even 9AM yet. I’m left chatting with one of the young guys employed by the bus company to round up lost passengers like me. Only it seems that he’s taken a shine to me and while not quite as gropey as his equivalent would be somewhere like India or Egypt, he does seem to be touching my arm and my shoulder a great deal as he talks without any apparent reason. In the end I wait till his back his turned, slip my ring off my middle finger and onto my ring finger on my left hand and when he’s back with his hand on my arm I flash it in front of his face while laughing and say “Why do you keep touching me? I’m a married woman!”. Does the trick.
When I first got to Cebu City, my friend Deep who’s been living here warned me about the air pollution. You can see the locals covering their mouths and noses either with their hands or with bandanas or handkerchiefs when riding Jeepneys or walking along the roads. I’m not sure how effective that is, but I didn’t actually suffer too much from the pollution in town. Maybe it’s the time already spent in Hong Kong what did it but it didn’t make me cough or anything. The journey out of the city towards Maya though is evil. Once out of the terminal the air is so thick with pollution you can practically count the cancer cells. The rain, the wind and the fact that I’m not dressed for the weather don’t help make the journey any more pleasant and I also quickly find out that the journey is only four hours long because the bus works like a Jeepney – dropping off and picking up passengers on request along the route. If you want to get off you can bang on the wall or make a kissing sound not unlike the one North African men used to sleaze over you on the street in London, or a kss kss sound I mostly associate with communicating with cats. Amazingly, after about an hour or so of this, they both seem perfectly normal as means of attracting the bus driver’s attention.
Even though it’s raining, the journey is interesting. I see all kinds of cool things – a Jeepney branded with Hello Kitty, a local equivalent of lollipop man or traffic cop wearing one of those round straw hats with the pointy top, a bike taxi painted with what looks like Mickey Mouse bearing a stigmata on his white-gloved palms. I also see some less cool things – a run over ginger kitten by the side of the road, being slowly soaked with rain, a dead dog covered in blood and a man unloading a small cow from a pick up truck by a big building bearing the sign “slaughterhouse”.
After some eternity, we reach Maya and the bus drops us off by the water’s edge. From there it’s 20pesos to be taken by a little boat to one of the “big” boats – flimsy looking things with a narrow middle bit and “wings” made out of bamboo and wire. A ticket on an island hopping boat to Malapascua ought to cost 80pesos per person, but in reality you’re likely to end up paying anything from 80-150 and more if you don’t want to hang around for hours waiting for the boat to fill up. I’ve done this journey twice more since in either direction and only once paid the official fee. This first time, it’s still raining. It rains when I get on the boat. It’s still raining when I get off the boat at the other end. It rains when I have my lunch at the Italian restaurant on the beach and when I walk around with my gear looking for a place to stay. It even rains when I settle into my bungalow at a place called Daño’s, which has a veranda and faces the sea.
My bungalow doesn’t have any sockets in it. I turn over the whole room looking for a socket – surely you can’t have a room without sockets, right? I move the beds (there are two. It’s a double) and the wardrobe. I crawl on my hands and knees and feel along the skirting boards. Nothing. I even climb up on the bed to see if the ceiling fan is plugged into a ceiling socket I could hang my mobile or netbook off. Nope. Hardwired into the ceiling. And me without a screwdriver or any electrical knowledge. I end up charging my phone at a place called the “Craic House” which claims to be the local Irish bar. No WiFi, though – the wifi on the island’s been dead for 3 days. My mobile Internet comes and goes randomly, only enough to show me the subjects of the emails I’m getting. I can’t even send texts. The Craic House has one veggie dish on the menu for dinner, which is in the starters – a salad. “Vegetarian? You could have the sausage?” the barman suggests, trying to be helpful. I settle on the salad and banoffee pie for dessert. The rain starts up again when I’m on my way back and carries on all night. I go through 150 pages of the book I’m reading and manage half an hour of Plants Vs. Zombies on the PC before I run out of charge.