In the shadow of Mount St. Paul in Palawan

It rained all night Friday and by Saturday morning, the garden at the inn was soaked in two inches of water. Perfect bed weather on a balmy December morn, I thought. But what about those two bottles of red wine and sinful junk food waiting for you, my adventurous self shot back. Reluctantly, I got off the comfy mattress and got ready for the trekking weekend ahead. The plan was to take a road trip from the city proper on the east coast to Sabang beach on the west coast of Puerto Princesa, in central Palawan. My buddy Dong offered to be the driver while our friend May, whose family owned the lodging house where all three of us once spent many giggly episodes years ago, lent her hardy Korean-made four-wheel drive vehicle for the joyride along winding roads. A lot had changed since I left the city four years ago, after media violence took the life of a colleague and I suddenly found myself uprooted from my adopted home. Slowly coming back to the island on quick, sometimes surreptitious trips, I found new cafes and buildings every time. As we drove around the downtown area to pick up snacks and drinks, our noisy trio delighted in poking fun at the lodging houses that seemed to have mushroomed in every corner, even in the most out-of-the way places. One particularly tacky hotel had fake log frames around the windows; May and I were not too happy that we went to the same university as its owner. Dropping by the booking office of the beach resort where we would stay overnight, I was pleasantly surprised to see artist-couple Susan and Mike Tupas across the street, where they had just opened the aptly named Ikaw kag ako eatery. Their new souvenir shop and café added another bohemian touch to the stretch of Rizal avenue towards the airport, definitely good news to frequent Palawan travelers. Desert Rose on country roads We chugged light beer as we drove past mango orchards and empty fields going north. Dong ranted about the castle-like structure with turreted roofs perched on a hill overlooking Honda Bay. It reminded me of the Ampatuan clan’s unfinished fortress in Davao City, which had guard posts on every corner. The Puerto Princesa manor was a theme park version of the warlord’s mansion. Veering left from barangay Salvacion on the road towards Sabang, May told me there’s now a mangrove boat tour and walkway in the fishing settlement of Bahile (or Baheli, depending on the map). I remembered my first trip to St. Paul’s National Park 20 years ago, when I had to take a small boat from the mangrove river of Bahile to the restless shores of Sabang, passing by the treacherous Punta Diablo where huge waves crashed on the rocks. Back then, we reached the park after six hours of boat rides and hiking on old logging roads, but these days, the trip takes only an hour on a traffic-free and mostly concrete road.

Just past the crossroads going to Macarascas, I noticed a round-shaped house that didn’t seem to be there during my last trip to the park about five years ago. Dong turned around so we could get a closer look. Its design was not quite in keeping with the simple huts in these rural parts. All three of us had been away from Palawan for a while, but we thought the house must be newly built, although the rough coat of white paint that didn’t quite cling to the wood gave it a patina of old world charm. It seemed apropos that my favorite artist Sting was singing my favorite track Desert Rose on the car’s music deck as we breezed down Buenavista and the first rocky outcrops came into view, their chalky surface a hint of more picturesque scenery ahead. In the rainy afternoon, mist hung heavily just below the peak of Mount St. Paul, named by British explorers after the famous cathedral in London. It obscured the thick jungle overgrowth of craggy cliffs, and I gazed out the window brooding at the familiar view from a distant memory. Along the built-up area of Cabayugan village, May pointed out the series of lamp posts on the roadside that had a solar panel on either side and tiny wind turbines on top, so small that they looked like toys. She observed that some of the solar panels were in the shade, diminishing their usefulness. As we neared the coastal settlement of Sabang, the familiar logo of the jeep D’Christ caught my eye. It seemed more like a mini-bus than a jeepney now, but the fully-packed “taplud" (or topload) remained. The sign on its mud guard summed up my feelings at that point: It’s good to be back. Wave rider There were no roads going to the resorts along the long stretch of Sabang beach the last time I was there, and many tour operators often dragged their four-wheel drive vehicles on the fragile sand to the dismay of marine biologists. With a new five-star resort on its shores, I wondered how the hotel operators ferried their guests in. My doubts returned as we navigated a haphazardly built dirt road between the resorts and the farmlands at the foot of the St. Paul mountain range. We tossed and turned in the muddy track, passing by a sign that announced a “Lot for sale 175 square meters for P1-M" outside a ramshackle hut. It was part of a row of shanties that would have fit in quite well in the squatter community of Quito in the city proper, but instead became woefully representative of urban blight in what should have been a pristine setting. The sight was enough to ruin one’s nature experience entirely. Fortunately, we had booked ourselves in an almost posh resort in the middle of Sabang beach. From the deck of our room that had all mod-cons imaginable, I spent a long time watching a silly dude attempting to surf Sabang’s mild waves; this wasn’t Kuta beach in Bali after all, where the waves are high enough for a decent ride. He succeeded quite nicely a few times, managing to get up on the surfboard and riding a wave for a few frustrating seconds. May and Dong braved the fiercely unceasing waves roaring onto the shore, while I was more content basking in the serenity of Sabang on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The towering coconut trees were still and quiet in the dying light of day, the kind of moment that invites introspection and dreamy thoughts. In the morning, we decided to get on with our planned trek to Malipien, also known as the CPS or central park station, despite a light drizzle. Aware that I should not get sick as I had to go straight to work in Manila the next day, I took an umbrella that doubled as a walking stick. Later, I was happy to report to selected Facebook friends that I managed an 800-meter hilly stretch of the jungle trail in 20 minutes, quite a feat considering my sedentary existence. Before we left the resort, I discovered that the swimming pool at Daluyon resort had the best view of Mount St. Paul in the sprawling compound. I made a mental note to come back, knowing there’s now lodging for travelers that are pleased to have creature comforts in their favorite haunts. Back in 1989, my first trip to St. Paul’s park had become an epiphany: the place person in me (not that I was ever a people person anyway) wants to make Filipinos realize that there are many beautiful places in the country we often take for granted. This time around, I was just happy to be home again. – GMANews.TV