Puerto Galeras Permanent Fuckers

We hop into the minivan to Roxas and say goodbye at the pier. Max ships back to Boracay. I drive on towards Manila. In Calapan, the second minivan kicks me out. Trike to the market and take the jeepney to Puerto Galera. There, a trike pirate rips me off for the last time. Five euros for five kilometres. I say goodbye to him with the words “Thanks for ripping me off, fucker.” He looks stupid, I’m fine.

I only need three trikes, two minivans, a jeepney and seven hours to cover the 210 kilometres from Bulalacao to Sabang / Puerto Galera. The waiting time was never more than ten minutes. The entire board of Deutsche Bahn should be sent here on an educational holiday. They could learn a lot about coordination. Less so when it comes to speed.

The only cheap accommodation is Tuna Joe’s Backpackers. It’s at the end of a long muddy track through the jungle at the back of Sabang. There is no toilet paper. I’m supposed to use water. I point to my long nose and explain that without toilet paper, that tine allows me to feel dirtier than young women before the ob advert from 1986. But he probably doesn’t know the advert. My efforts remain unsuccessful.

Sabang is famous for its diving spots. As it is close to Manila, it is completely overcrowded, overdeveloped, totally overpriced and a lot of shit. Women only have two possible professions here: Masseuse or whore. There are loads of both. There are an endless number of old, ugly single travellers walking around. Constantly on the go, usually with a beautiful young Filipina at their beck and call.

The better long-noses look like Wolfgang Petry with syphilis in 40 years. The worse ones have red-cheeked tattoos and wear cheeky T-shirts with inscriptions like “Old guys rule”. The y is a half-empty wine glass. Underneath it says “improved by age”. The sight makes me happy, because I’ll be back home tomorrow. There, the fuckers live where they belong: in dark, dirty holes.

In the morning, I pull my Mystic Kitebag over the mountain behind a moped. That was definitely too much for him. But it has served bravely. I go for another quick dive. The only flabby thing underwater is a large calamar changing its colours on the run. Colourful fish and corals, surface and off we go on the last bangka back to Luzon. At 50 metres, it is a real battleship. The sea is normal. Nevertheless, some fuckers mutate into birds. They spread their clipped wings. Then they row. Smiling quietly, I enjoy the last crossing.