Sem Break

Went to Iloilo over the break with Monica. It’s an enthralling city, one with a very healthy mix of urbanity and history. The old district was particularly interesting with its old art deco buildings and arcaded streets that resembled Recto in Manila, only cleaner and more intact. I love heritage structures, especially those that announce their history loudly and ostentatiously, like the old houses around Jaro Plaza where the miradors, colonnaded porte cocheres and huge persianas tucked behind large capiz windows all tell stories of a glorious past. The names don’t fake the grandeur either - houses of the Ledsma, Lizares, Locsin and Lopez clans bear the southern industry with pride and success.

In the eastern side sits the more modern part of the city, with squares filled with fancy restaurants, gentrified into old river banks where the lights from the bars breathed life to a thriving nightlife. It was Halloween when we were there, and Ilonggo creativity reminded me of how aspirations can get too Western at times. I saw at least three pirates. But who knows? Iloilo was a significant Spanish port that constantly defended against Moro marauders. There might have been some locality to the Jack Sparrows of October 31.

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It was in Concepcion, 4 hours northwest of Iloilo, that all the elements of my idea of the beach conspired. It’s a poor town with poor infrastructure and tacky resorts. I don’t mind the absence of modernity though. In fact, I secretly wish ruggedness and a bit of discomfort in my trips coz it makes me feel more ‘backpacked’ than I’d actually care to concede. Anyway, off the town’s coast lie a bundle of unbelievably beautiful islands whose climax comes in the form of a huge, towering limestone monster of a mountain called Pan de Azucar.

In the main island, a woman tried to sell us some tropical real estate. I asked her if she owned an elevated patch of land I noticed hours earlier on the approach to the coast. She said she didn’t, but that she’d escort me to the owner. After an hour’s trek, we located the owner who was ambivalent in selling this parcel of rolling terrain which was perched atop a high cliff that fell directly onto pristine turquoise blue reefs. To boot, it had the best unobstructed view of the limestone mountain.

I don’t know if I’ll ever buy that land, coz in hindsight, I don’t actually have any money and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to utilize it the way I fantasize the idea in my head: a modest hut with a wide open porch where I will sit on blue chairs while smoking a cigar over champagne/scotch and exquisite seafood, sunlight on maximum.

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I spent three days in Baler with my good friends Aames, Paul and Raf. They’re the best crew for lazy out-of-towners. Raf drives like crazy through rough terrain but makes the best coffee with his portable espresso machine, Aames offers the intense conversations which involve only either political debates or sex, and Paul sort of neutralizes with his composure and choice words. I usually play the part of a dictator-singer-songwriter. Anyway, Baler was on fire! Never seen beach breaks host swells as huge as the ones that weekend. The first day I tried to get through the breakers and to the lineup where waves were at their most prime, but my endurance just wasn’t enough for the powerful whitewash. So I settled with paddling and surfing secondary waves – which were not bad at all considering most were almost overhead.

On the last day I made the bid to get beyond the breakers, and after a grueling paddle out to the lineup, I finally reached the golden spot where things were more peaceful. I rested for about 15 minutes to regain some strength in my arms, and when the perfect wave rolled towards me, I paddled so hard I almost dislocated my shoulder. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to turn my board in time and ended up being wiped out in grand fashion midway. I twisted and turned underwater like I never twisted and turned before. As I buoyed up above the surface moments later, a second huge wave pummeled me again, and this time my leash broke off and my surf board got lost in the current.

So, in the middle of harsh waves and deep Pacific water, I tried to fight the panic and the exhaustion. I couldn’t reach the sea floor, and was too weak to swim to shore. I made the choice to just keep floating rather than exhaust myself to death. Consequently, I took some more thrashing and slipped helplessly up and down the sea before I decided I was strong enough to start swimming to shallower waters. I finally reached the shore with a realization that with surfing, the stakes are only going to get higher. No surfer ever graduates from near-death experiences.