by Chris Tharp
*
The next day, I joined Scott and Matt in an expedition out of the exhaust-choked chaos of town. We rented motorcycles and headed north on the two-lane road, which soon opened up into green country, with the wild sea on our right. Our destination was Honda Bay, one of Palawan’s many marine sanctuaries. Once there, we chartered a boat for a day trip around the many islands which dot the bay, taking in the salty air and, more importantly, the array of sea life pulsing underneath the water’s choppy blue surface. The highlight was Snake Island, named not for any resident reptiles—there were none—but rather for the thin, serpentine shape of the tiny landmass.
In the waters right off of the main beach was a deep canyon, home to thousands of fish. The tour operators fed the fish daily—a dubious practice, conservation-wise—but one that assured the snorkelers delivered to the area got the biggest bang for their buck. And the bang was mighty indeed. We snorkeled and looked on in amazement at the masses of fish gathered up—whole walls of finned creatures moving as one organism. Even the shallows were thick with shimmering, living clusters, deprogrammed of their natural fear of humans due to the feeding routines. I’ve never taken in such a spectacle—assuming that such delights were reserved for deep-sea divers—and came to realize why Palawan had come to be billed as the crown jewel of the Philippines’ eco-tourism hot spots.
In the early evening I found myself seated alone at the tables of the House of Rose. I typed away on my laptop and uploaded files to Facebook, amazed that wireless technology had managed to reach even this remote corner of the Philippines. This novelty was short-lived, though, as midway through my cyber-work, the power cut out.
“It happens all the time,” said Andy, shuffling into the space. “Power blackouts. No need to worry. We got a big generator to deal with this nonsense.”
Within a couple of minutes, the generator was fired up and power restored, though the machine itself sounded like a pickup truck with the exhaust pipe removed, a machine-gun combustion engine that destroyed any semblance of tranquility.
“You busy right now?”
“No.” I yelled, over the generator’s din.
“Come join me for a drink at my mate’s if you’d like.”
“Sure thing.”
I jumped into Andy’s van and he drove us to a tiny, open-air bar near the center of town. Andy double-parked and as soon as we got out, we were greeted by the proprietor, a skinny, leathery man who appeared to be in his late 50s. His name was Claude, and he hailed from Quebec, though like Andy, he was spending his golden years drinking away the hours in Puerto Princesa.
“This is Chris,” Andy said. “He’s a Yank, but don’t hold it against him.”
Claude warmly gripped my hand. “Welcome, my friend.”
Claude ushered us to a large outside table and promptly ordered a round of San Miguels from his much younger wife. The massive age gap between expat husbands and their local wives is de riguer in this part of the world. Such is the way of the Philippine retirement plan, I suppose.
We were soon joined by several other paunchy, middle-aged white dudes, all of whom were seasoned veterans of the Palawan scene. I sipped my beer and took my place at the end of the table, while the local boys talked shop. All of them were married to local women and at least made a partial living by offering booze, lodging, tours, and even girls to the visitors coming through.
“Things are better these days,” said Jan, a white-haired Dutch guy who owned a small hotel.
“It’s about fuckin’ time,” added Andy.
“Was it slow before?” I asked, embracing the role of the greenhorn.
“You don’t know about the kidnapping?”
“What kidnapping?”
“Abu Sayaf? You as an American should know these things,” said Jan.
“I know about Abu Sayaf,” I said, attempting recovery. “But aren’t they down south, in Mindanao?”
“That’s their base of operations,” said Andy. “But eight years back they kidnapped some tourists—including several Americans—from a resort here in Palawan.”
“Dos Palmas. Honda Bay,” added Claude.
“Honda Bay? I was just there today.”
Andy continued: “They came during the night, loaded them in a boat, and took them away to an island down south, where they held them in the jungle for several months. A few hostages were killed… some beheaded.”
Claude ran his hand across his throat and made a gagging sound.
“…though most were eventually freed by the army.”
“And a load of ransom money,” said Jan.
“Anyway,” Andy said, “as you can imagine, tourism to Palawan dropped off massively after that, which is ridiculous. It was just one targeted raid.”
“On the rich,” says Claude.
“Exactly,” said Andy. “You have nothing to worry about, Chris. I guarantee you that House of Rose will be the last place ever hit,”
“You are right about that, my friend,” laughed Claude. “Even the terrorists have some taste.”
“Tell all of your friends to come,” said Jan. “And, if,” he lowered his voice, “while you’re here, you ever need a place to take a girl… I have rooms by the hour.”
“That is good to know,” I said.
Andy looked my way and shot me a wink.
Buzzing from the beer, we headed back to House of Rose just in time for dinner. The cast of characters from the night before was gathered up again. Brenda and Chuck sat in silence, gorging on their daily fix of Chicken Cordon Bleu. Chuck sported a white muscle shirt and improvised headband, and was broiled red by the sun, the kind of burn that is agonizing just to look at. Bud and Drew were next to them, beers and smokes in hand. I took a place at the adjacent table with Scott and Matt, who both plugged away on their laptops.
“Well look what the cat drug in!” said Bud. “Your lil’ gay buddies told me about your adventures today.”
“You really should check it out, Bud,” said Matt.
“It’s awesome,” added Scott, sipping from a Coke. “Check out my photos.”
“Well, we’re fixin’ to go tomorrow. Ain’t we?”
“Sure thing,” mumbled a miserable Chuck, mouth full of Cordon Bleu. “But y’all need to remind me to bring my sunscreen.”
“What are you doin’ tonight?” Drew asked. “You got any plans?”
“Here I am. What’s up?”
“Well the girls want to head out later, once they close up the kitchen. You wanna come, bro?”
“Count me in.”
“Not us,” said Chuck, looking up from his half-eaten plate. “I feel like I survived a napalm attack. My sizzled ass is goin’ to bed as soon as I’m done with this chow.”
After work, the women changed their clothes and came out to join us.
“You girls is lookin’ fine tonight!” exclaimed Bud.
Mira and Rose smiled, while the short, darker-skinned Dalisay gave him a death glare and hissed, “You try to touch me, old man, and I cut off your hand.”
“Cut whatever you want girl, just as long as it ain’t my pecker. I’m still usin’ it!”
The eight of us piled into two tricycles—the motorcycles with sidecars found throughout the Philippines—and headed away from House of Rose into the town center. The dirty streets were filled with pedestrians, motorcycles, a few cars, and many other tricycles. Like most developing countries at night, the side streets were dark save the lights of the vehicles. People stood and sat in front of gates and doorways, drinking, smoking, and gambling. Some had guitars and entertained each other with songs. Nearly everyone in the Philippines can sing decently and strum at least a few chords on a guitar—never have I been to a country so steeped in music. We passed by open air restaurants with their display cases full of meat and fish dishes, fried rice, pancit, lumpia, and adobo. A few neon-lit girlie bars pumped out loud pop music in an attempt to lure in the men, and mange-ridden dogs wandered free.
“Where are we going?�
� I asked Mira, who was sandwiched against me in the small sidecar. I put my arm behind her and she leaned in close.
“Away from House of Rose!” she said, smiling. “We want to show you Princesa!”
The tricycles stopped at the town’s harbor and we all got out. We walked along a wide promenade lit up by white lights on green poles and took pictures of each other in groups and couples. The sticky Palawan air was cooler at the water’s edge; families and couples strolled along and gazed out into the dark of the bay. A couple of large ships were moored at the docks, and I got the sense that the municipal authorities did everything they could to make sure this part of the little city looked as spiffy as possible. A huge sign at the harbor’s edge spelled it out in white stone lettering: WELCOME TO PUERTO PRINCESA.
“How old are you, Mira?”
“Twenty-two. How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“You are liar!” She slapped my shoulder. “Much younger.”
“Nope. Thirty-eight.”
“You are American, yes?”
“Yes, but I live in Korea.”
“Korea? Why do you live in Korea?”
“Work. I teach there.”
“Korea is very cold, no?”
“Yes, right now, VERY cold.”
“I cannot stand the cold.” She shivered at the thought.
“Are you from Princesa?”
“No. I’m from Roxas… to the north.”
“Do you like working at House of Rose?”
“It’s an okay job… but many hours and little money. But I meet many people… many visitors… many countries.”
I paused for a moment: “Do you have a baby?”
To me this seems like a legitimate question, since nearly every woman under the age of twenty-five I’d seen or met in the Philippines had at least one kid. The Catholic Church’s imprint was visible everywhere in the country, especially in the form of millions of children birthed by very young mothers.
She grinned and answered without hesitation, “Yes, I have baby. A son. His name is Miguel. Look.”
She brought out her cell phone and showed me a picture of a chubby-faced toddler with huge brown eyes.
“Very cute.”
“I miss my little boy…”
“Where is he?”
“He lives with my mother… in Roxas. I don’t see him so often.”
“It must be hard for you.”
“Yes, but I must make money.”
“Hey you guys!” Rose waved to us. “Come this way.”
We followed Rose and the rest of the posse along a trail leading up the hill that loomed over the harbor. Once we got to the top we came upon a cluster of large tents lit up with white Christmas lights. As we entered, I saw that they were packed with people shouting. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke, and I could taste sawdust and sweat. A vivid sense of excitement burned in my skin.
“Hey Mira, what is this place?”
“Filipino casino!”
The crowds gathered around various low-stakes games of chance, all of which looked homemade. Each had a game master and groups of players throwing down bets; behind them stood even more spectators. We moved into the room, squeezing through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.
“You wanna play?” I asked.
“Okay.”
We made our way to a huge table. In the middle was a sunken platform made up of squares of many colors. A hole was cut in the middle of each square. Along the edge of the table were colored rectangles that matched the squares. This was where you placed your bet. Once all the bets were placed, a soccer ball was tossed onto the platform. It rolled and bounced about until eventually settling on a color. If the color matched that of your bet, it paid out.
I handed Mira some pesos and we both placed bets. The man tossed the ball onto the platform.
“Para para para!” she shouted. I know para means “stop” in Spanish and assumed that they must have adopted it in Palawano. After all, Tagalog is full of Spanish words.
“Para! Para!” I shouted.
“Para!” Mira echoed, laughing.
The ball settled on orange. We won.
We ended the night at a strange club in town, complete with cover band. Filipinos are the kings of cabaret bands, providing the lounge entertainment for countless hotel bars and clubs throughout Asia. It’s no wonder that they’re also masters of the form in their own homeland.
We ordered a round of beers and hit the dance floor when Matt joined the band on stage for a version of “Twist and Shout.” Matt had been a guitarist for a few indie bands back home; he strummed and belted out the Beatles classic with gusto, all while being backed up by an extremely courteous group of Filipino players, who appeared slightly bemused by the spectacle. After Matt’s stint sitting in, Bud bought several rounds of tequila shots for the table, and the girls tore it up, throwing out all of their best moves to a blaring soundtrack of pop favorites, with Lady Gaga and the Wonder Girls heavy in the mix. The Filipinos love their pop, especially with an extra dollop of cheese on top. They adore music of all forms and have no time for scorn or self-involved irony.
It had been a long, sweaty day and I was spent. I drooped in the chair, nearly nodding off, thinking of my bed at House of Rose. Mira grabbed me by the hand and attempted to coax me back out to the floor, but my shoes felt like they were filled with wet sand and I just couldn’t keep up, so I collapsed back into the seat.
“Are you okay?” she shouted in my ear.
“Yeah yeah… fine. Just tired… and drunk.”
She sat down next to me and held my hand.
“Oh poor baby…” she teased. We watched Bud as he leapt and spun in crazed abandon, tapping from a seemingly infinite well of energy.
“I like you, Mira.”
“I like you, too.”
“I’m leaving on Wednesday.”
She nodded along with the beat, watching the old man continue to cut it up.
“Can I take you on a date tomorrow?”
*
After a day trip by motorcycle to the other side of the island, I returned to Princesa, killing time before my upcoming date with Mira. That evening, I wandered away from the guesthouse toward the center of the town, eventually settling in at an open-air bar and restaurant nestled on a side street. I sat alone, listening to techno-pop music blare over the tables and sipping yet another cold San Miguel.
An old woman in a straw hat ambled past. She carried two baskets tied to a stick that lay balanced across her shoulders. She called out, “Balut! Balut!”
“Have you ever tried balut?” asked the waitress, a perpetually smiling young woman of about twenty.
“Isn’t that the half-formed baby duck cooked in its egg shell?”
“Yes, that’s it, though these are baby chickens”
“Uh, no. I can say with some certainty that I have not eaten balut.”
“It’s good!” she laughed. “You want to try?”
I sipped and thought for moment before pulling the trigger: “Uh, sure… hook me up with some chicken fetus.”
The waitress called to the old woman, who stopped, opened one of her baskets, and produced a white egg. The waitress paid and handed it to me. I felt its warmth radiate into the palm of my beer-cooled hand.
“Okay, now follow my directions. First, carefully crack.”
I nodded and tapped the top of the egg on the table.
“Good. Now peel away just a little bit… that’s good!”
“Okay, what next?”
“Drink the soup.”
“The soup?”
“Yes, drink the liquid inside. It is very good. Some say the best part.”
Again I followed her directions, putting the warm egg to my lips and tipping it toward my mouth.
“Go ahead and suck.”
I did as I was told. The balut broth was slightly salty and tasted very much of chicken. So far so good.
“Finished?”
I nodded.
“Now peel the shell away.”
I slowly stripped away the shell, revealing a hardened yellowish yolk and purple umbilical cord. Soon the alien head became visible, all slimy and pink, complete with bulging eyeballs and an almost fully formed beak. A spider web of veins twisted underneath the sickly, translucent skin.
It was a grotesque form, reminding me of the baby in David Lynch’s classic film Eraserhead.
“Now eat,” instructed the waitress. I took a breath and went to take a bite before she stopped me: “All. Take all at once.”
“Okay,” I said, eyeing the hideous mass just inches from my face. “Here goes nothin’.”
With that I popped the whole balut into my mouth and chewed. As I bit down, I felt my teeth slice through the yolk and into the flesh, followed by a burst of warm fluid from the semi-creature’s insides. The taste was intense—chicken concentrate—the very essence of poultry. But what disturbed me most was the crunching. I could clearly feel its tiny bones snap as I crushed and ground up the fetus in my chomping maw.
I quickly gulped the fleshy, gooey mass down, and chased it with beer in a frenzied attempt to purge every trace of balut from my unfortunate mouth. My stomach balked at the delivery, but the impulse soon passed, and I managed to keep it down.
The waitress looked on in pure joy: giggling, beaming, and punctuating the whole affair with sincere applause.
“Well done!” she praised. “It is very delicious, yes?”
“Delicious? Well… I’m not sure if that’s the word I’d use. It was very… chicken-y.”
“Do you want another?”
I shook my head and laughed. “I’m good, thanks. In fact, I’ll take the check, please.”
“Already? Why are you in such a hurry? Do you have some kind of a date?”
