Our last passage together in the Philippines is like travelling here has always been: exhausting and adventurous. Early in the morning, we travel by trike through pouring rain to Magdiwan Pier. The 50 metre long RoRo ferry of Montenegro Lines is shaken by large breakers in heavy seas. The spray splashes up to the promenade deck at a height of five metres. The going is reminiscent of Oktoberfest after four measures.
Max hasn’t eaten properly for two days at Guting-Guiting. He orders two 45cm pizzas at the Romblon Deli. Then a cheap room and a good night’s sleep. We can’t go any further today. In the evening, we finish the rest of the pizza and sip the last gin and tonic in Romblon. We haven’t seen a single traveller for days, not tourists anyway.
The next morning, I ride the little bangka to Tablas for the fourth time, Max for the second. It is the only way to cross over to Mindoro. The sea is as smooth as glass. In San Augustin, we hop on the first jeepney and ride for two hours through the mountains to Odiongan on the other side of Tablas. Due to the heavy rainfall of the last few days, the road is badly damaged in places, buried or simply a raging river.
We reach the pier at Odiongan just in time for the departure of the Bangka to Roxas Mindoro. “Just in time” means half an hour before departure. That’s nothing in a country where every journey can easily take twice as long. We heave our 30kg kitebags over a narrow plank on board one last time. Yesterday’s beds were cheap, but also full of bedbugs. I spent the whole night scratching instead of sleeping. As a result, I hardly noticed anything of the three-hour crossing.
The arrival harbour of Roxas on MIndoro is one of the major hubs for pilgrims on their way to Boracay. The trike drivers behave accordingly. It would be three kilometres to the jeepney terminal. They want 50 pesos for that. When they drop us off at the first petrol station after 500 metres, they demand 100 pesos. There is no jeepney to Bulalacao. Thank you, and fuck you! 60 kilometres in a speeding minivan costs the same as 500 metres on a trike.
There’s not a single website on the Internet for accommodation in Bulalacao. Even two dozen text messages from the boat are useless: we jump off at a snack bar, squeeze a Minudo and Red Horse strong beer. The size of our kitebags impresses the gin-drinking motorbike gang on the other side of the road. They invite us in. “Do you like Bulalacao?”. Sure man, you arrive and are immediately in the thick of it. After two bottles of gin, the well-drunk Bi-Pin gets on his trike and drives us to the affordable Felipa Lodge II right by the sea south of Bulalacao. The third bike is his best friend today.
As the only guests, we are once again warmly welcomed by the obligatory bar tuk-tuk. We check out the beach. It looked kiteable on Google Maps. In reality, it is non-existent, at least at high tide. Never mind, it’s flat and water starts are always possible. We’re afraid that Bi-Pin’s trike will break down on the way home due to its owner’s threatening under-alk. So we invite him round for another bottle of gin.
After half an hour, he can hardly talk. We’re well buzzed because we’re twice as heavy. We order another bottle of gin – it’s only 350 ml and costs just 50 cents. Tukke has a cough, gin disinfects. Every “Sir” before “Frank” now costs him another one. We’re the devil without disguise. Afterwards, the party continues for a while with good sound and nice Filipino visitors. I fall into bed at ten, as I usually don’t until two at the earliest. Full throttle travelling.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.