058 CYCLE TOURING THE PHILIPPINES

Balut, Bangkas, and Bicycle Bravado: My Philippine Odyssey

PHILIPPINES
3,543 Kilometres – 110 Days
4 September – 24 December 2013

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VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

 

PRELUDE

I arrived in the Philippines with no plan beyond “cycle around a bit,” which was like saying I intended to “casually stroll across the moon.” The country is an archipelago of thousands of islands scattered across the sea like someone dropped a box of jewels and walked away.

I didn’t know what waited for me — ferries, typhoons, volcanoes, Jeepneys, balut, coral walls, and strangers who would feed me long before asking my name. I only knew I wanted to see the place slowly: from the saddle of a bicycle, from the deck of a bangka boat, and occasionally from guesthouses where the fan worked only if you prayed.

What followed was a journey of surprises: whale sharks drifting past like underwater buses, children shouting “Hello, ma’am!” with uncontainable joy, sunsets that stopped me mid‑pedal, and kindness so constant it felt woven into the landscape.

This is the story of that ride — chaotic, generous, exhausting, and unforgettable — across an archipelago that never once behaved the way I expected.

 

 

Mindanao Island

 

A Ferry, a Feral Child Army, and the Quest for a Bed – Arriving in Zamboanga City

The ferry from Borneo was meant to glide into Zamboanga City at a respectable hour, but instead it limped in around nine o’clock the next evening, wheezing like an asthmatic yak. Disembarkation didn’t begin until eleven, because apparently every single passenger had decided they absolutely must be the first off the boat. This made for a kind of slow‑motion stampede: a crowd collectively surging forward without actually going anywhere, like a rugby scrum performed underwater.

While we waited for transport to immigration, small children materialised from the darkness and began scaling the ferry like caffeinated spider monkeys. They were astonishingly fast — evolutionary marvels, really — darting under bunks, over railings, and through luggage piles with the speed and precision of pickpocketing ninjas. Even the onboard security guards, who looked reasonably competent at standing still, had no hope of catching them.

Immigration was a sauna with paperwork. A queue snaked from one end of the building to the other, and people pushed and shoved with the determination of those who believe physics can be overcome through sheer willpower. Passports were repurposed as fans, though they only succeeded in blowing hot air onto already sweaty faces.

By the time I escaped, I was armed with nothing but a headlamp and a vague sense of optimism. Zamboanga’s streets were eerily dark, revealing homeless figures curled in doorways and hotels that were either full or priced for people who travel with monogrammed luggage. Only on the fourth attempt did I find a room, and by then it was half past one in the morning. — the hour when even cockroaches have gone to bed.

Priority the next morning: find an ATM before I became the first cyclist in history to starve while surrounded by food vendors.

The Philippines, being the world’s second‑largest archipelago, has 7,107 islands — a number that suggests the country was designed by someone who really liked dots. Its history is equally dramatic: claimed by Spain, briefly borrowed by the British, fought over by the Americans, invaded by Japan, and finally granted independence in 1946. It’s a wonder the islands haven’t collectively sunk under the weight of all that historical activity.

Warnings about political violence were plentiful, and everyone advised me not to wild camp. This was delivered in the same tone one might use to say, “Don’t pet the crocodile.”

While wandering around town, the heavens opened with tropical enthusiasm. Rain in the Philippines doesn’t fall — it attacks. Fortunately, it attacks quickly and then loses interest.

A tricycle driver eventually located an ATM for me, though not a map. The tricycle, essentially a motorbike with a sidecar welded on by someone with a flexible interpretation of geometry, moved only marginally faster than walking.

 

Jeepneys, Jungle Heat, and a Karaoke Bar (72 km)

I cycled out of Zamboanga alongside tricycles, bicycles, Jeepneys, buses, trucks, and anything else capable of forward motion. Jeepneys — the flamboyant descendants of American military Jeeps — are painted in colours visible from space and carry approximately twenty passengers, or forty if everyone breathes in.

A motorbike shop kindly switched my mirror to the left side, as Filipinos drive on the right. The owner also warned me not to camp, which was becoming a national refrain.

The countryside was gorgeous: emerald rice paddies, water buffalo luxuriating in mud puddles, and tricycles ferrying schoolchildren who looked delighted to be alive. Even the tiniest village had a school, which made me feel optimistic about humanity.

Photo stops were constant. The Philippines is so photogenic it should come with a memory‑card warning label.

Dark clouds gathered around mid‑afternoon, and thunder rumbled like an irritated god. Thankfully, Vitali appeared before the rain did. The police directed me to a karaoke bar with rooms above it — a sentence that tells you everything you need to know about the accommodation.

The room was dark, dingy, and constructed from cardboard walls that offered the privacy of a lace curtain. But the owners were wonderfully friendly, and at the end of the hallway sat a large water container from which one could scoop water over oneself in a manner that technically qualifies as bathing.

Dinner was a takeaway rice meal eaten on the balcony. Three locals joined me and watched me eat with the fascination of people observing a rare zoo animal. Eventually I retreated to my semi‑private cardboard chamber, where at least I could chew without an audience.

 

Breakfast, a Corpse and the Unexpected Luxury of a Swimming Pool (65 km)

Breakfast was quick, and immediately afterwards the restaurant owner insisted on showing me her sister’s corpse. She explained the sister had died of a heart attack, which was reassuring in the sense that it wasn’t food poisoning. When she encouraged me to take photos, I declined with the speed of someone avoiding a lifetime of therapy.

The coastal road didn’t cling to the ocean, but every now and then it climbed high enough to reveal bright blue water dotted with tiny islands — the sort of view that makes you forget your legs are tired.

Mindanao felt like one long village, and I was never out of sight of someone. But the ride was short, and Ipil soon appeared, offering a surprisingly comfortable hotel with a restaurant and a swimming pool. After Vitali’s cardboard walls, it felt like checking into the Ritz.

 

Laundry Villages, and the Mystery of My “Purpose” (75 km)

I set off from Ipil in a drizzle that couldn’t quite decide whether it wanted to be rain or atmospheric decoration. Once or twice, it committed, forcing me to pull over until the worst passed. The road was hilly again, though not nearly as dramatic as everyone had warned. Filipinos love warning you about hills — they speak of them as if they are sentient and plotting.

The route wound past tiny settlements where the dominant industry appeared to be laundry. Everywhere: washing, rinsing, wringing, hanging. If Mindanao ever forms its own nation, it should put a clothesline on the flag.

Palm‑woven huts dotted the roadside, and sari‑sari stores sold everything from crackers to shampoo sachets — the entire human experience distilled into a three‑square‑metre shop.

Buug was easy to spot because it wasn’t large enough to hide. It did, however, boast a vast fish market selling every possible permutation of fish: fresh, dried, big, small, and some that looked like they’d died of old age.

Locals frequently asked if I was an American journalist or a missionary — apparently the only two types of foreigners who ever visit Mindanao. When I said I was neither, they looked baffled. “What’s your purpose in the Philippines?” they’d ask, rubbing their chins like philosophers. When I replied, “Only travelling,” they repeated it back to me — “Oh… only travelling” — as if I’d confessed to an obscure and slightly shameful hobby.

I didn’t take many photos. The moment the camera appeared, whispers of “journalist, journalist” rippled through the crowd. Mindanao is one of the worst places in the world to be mistaken for a journalist, ranking just behind Iraq. After the 2009 Maguindanao massacre, where fifty‑seven civilians were killed — including four journalists — I decided the camera could stay in its bag.

 

Water Buffalo Ploughmen, Hammock Catapults, and a Narrow Escape (63 km)

The ride to Pagadian was rainy but picturesque — rice fields, farmers ploughing with water buffalo, waterfalls, rivers, and children sprinting after me with the enthusiasm of Olympic hopefuls.

One man, lounging in a hammock beside his stall selling petrol in Coca‑Cola bottles, was so startled by my appearance that he spun around and fell right out of it. I laughed for the next ten kilometres.

The hills were long and steep, and my legs occasionally staged protests. The descent into Pagadian was a relief, though the town itself was a frenzy of tricycles and Jeepneys. I weaved through them like a snake with questionable balance.

After a shower, I went in search of a supermarket. Back at the hotel, I learned I had left Zamboanga City just in time — the Moros had killed four people and taken twenty hostages. I let out a long “Phew!” and decided that perhaps Mindanao was not the ideal place for leisurely cycling.

Rumour had it the northeast Coast was safer, and once I reached Cagayan de Oro, things would calm down. I clung to this rumour like a flotation device.

The next day was laundry day and eating everything in sight, while still giggling again about the man falling out of his hammock.

 

Uphills and a Splurge on Luxury (80 km)

The day began gently, then veered inland and upward — a climb of nearly forty kilometres. Eventually the road wound down to the ocean, offering spectacular views that almost justified the suffering.

Once on the coastal plains, the road was smooth and pleasant. Tubod appeared like a reward.

Locals directed me to an upmarket hotel. Normally I avoid anything described as “upmarket,” but I thought, “What the heck,” and checked in. The hotel was on the outskirts of town, and its restaurant was equally pricey, but the food was excellent. Sometimes you just need a meal that doesn’t come in a plastic bag.

 

Breakfast Diplomacy and a Waterfall That Deserved Better Photos (66 km)

The morning began with meeting the friendliest group of people imaginable. They were attending a three‑day conference and immediately invited me to breakfast. Filipinos are astonishingly hospitable — they will feed you even if you’ve just eaten, and they will insist you take seconds even if you’re already full.

They also greet you with “Good morning, ma’am,” which always makes me feel like I should be wearing pearls and giving orders.

The ride to Iligan was short and scenic, running close to the ocean. Shortly before town, I stopped at Maria Cristina Falls — a magnificent sight. My photos, however, looked like they’d been taken during an earthquake. Oh well. There’s always another waterfall.

 

Traffic Terror, and an unusual roommate (88 km)

The ride into Cagayan de Oro was stressful enough to qualify as an extreme sport. The road was narrow, the traffic horrendous, and the drivers appeared to be participating in a nationwide suicide competition. Vehicles regularly occupied the same lane from opposite directions, forcing me to dive out of the way to avoid becoming a hood ornament.

At one point, a metal pin lodged itself firmly in my tyre. Removing it required brute force and left me covered in grease. I do not fix punctures with elegance.

Hot, sweaty, greasy, and in a foul mood, I entered CDO — a city so gridlocked that even bicycles couldn’t get through. The tricycles and Jeepneys belched fumes with the enthusiasm of dragons.

The congestion did at least allow me to ask for hotel directions. I found a cheap place on a “hotel‑kind‑of‑road,” but the air‑con didn’t work. I switched rooms. The air‑con still didn’t work. The toilet ran continuously, so I fixed it myself. Then, just as I was about to sleep, a mouse ran across the floor. I giggled, ignored it, and fell asleep. Priorities.

The next day I did laundry and bought two new inner tubes. Later, a river‑rafting company caught my eye. This was exactly what I needed.

A Jeepney picked me up with the rafts strapped to the roof — not confidence‑inspiring — but the trip was fantastic. The river was scenic, the guides professional, and by the end I had completely changed my mind about CDO.

That evening, the mouse was still running around the room. Poor thing. I think we’d bonded.

 

Camiguin Island

 

Balut Trauma, Coconut Charcoal, and a Beer with a View (90 km)

Leaving CDO required threading myself through Jeepneys, tricycles, buses, trucks, and anything else capable of honking. I stopped at a sari‑sari store for water and a boiled egg — a simple breakfast, I thought. Instead, I was handed balut: a half‑boiled duck embryo, complete with soup, feathers, and moral dilemmas.

The villagers watched with great anticipation, as though I were about to perform a magic trick. When I recoiled in horror, they looked genuinely disappointed. I understood one was supposed to crack the top, drink the broth, and then eat the embryo. I understood this very clearly. I also understood I would rather starve.

Further along, I passed properties with mountains of coconut shells and smoke billowing from mysterious shacks. Curiosity won, and I discovered charcoal production — coconut‑shell charcoal, to be precise. It explained the smoke and the general air of industriousness.

The road continued past traders selling delicious‑looking food and, inevitably, more balut. Filipinos adore food and seem constitutionally incapable of travelling without it. Counters displayed fried fish, fried chicken, pork in all its evolutionary stages, vegetables, noodles — a full buffet in every village.

At Balingoan, a ferry to Camiguin Island was waiting, so I bought a ticket and hopped aboard. By 4:30, I was on Camiguin Island, settling into a nipa hut on stilts over the water. Life, I thought, could indeed be worse.

Priority: obtain a San Miguel beer. With legs propped on the railing, I watched a zip‑line swoosh past and wondered whether I should fling myself down it in the morning. Hunger eventually drove me to a street vendor for bite‑sized Filipino favourites. Southeast Asia excels at food you can eat with one hand while contemplating your life choices.

 

Offline Banks, Offline Internet, and the Quest to Dive (25 km)

Camiguin’s coastal road loops around the island for about seventy kilometres. Cycling into Mambajao revealed a bank (offline), a market, bakeries, eateries, and a general sense of cheerful chaos.

Action Geckos was too expensive, so I settled for Caves Dive Resort next door — slightly cheaper and conveniently dive‑oriented. I was desperate to dive.

Booking required retrieving my diving certificate online. The staff assured me they had Internet. They did not. They had the idea of Internet. The concept. The philosophical possibility. But no actual connection.

It took some adjusting to the Filipino laid‑back approach. Having Internet that wasn’t connected was, to me, identical to not having Internet at all. To them, it was merely sleeping.

 

Slow Internet, and Not Much Else in Mambajao (20 km)

The next morning, the Internet remained offline, so I cycled to Jasmin by the Sea — large rooms, big bathrooms, right on the water, and Internet that actually worked (albeit slowly, like a tired snail).

With my sister’s help, the diving certificate was finally retrieved. Besides editing and uploading photos, not much else happened. Some days simply exist to be lived quietly.

The southwestern monsoon arrived overnight, bringing howling wind and rain that seemed determined to wash the island into the sea. There’s nothing quite like crawling back into bed during foul weather — it feels like winning at life.

Eventually the skies cleared enough for me to wander to the dive shop. A tricycle ride into town revealed it was lunchtime and the supermarket was closed. At least the ATM had woken up. So I had a pizza. It was excellent and enormous, and half was saved for supper.

Back at Jasmin, the power was out. With nothing else to do, I had a beer and reminded myself that things could be worse. Jasmin was comfortable, and waiting out storms is practically a tropical pastime.

 

Aquarium Diving and an Island Full of Wonders

Morning brought better weather — time to dive. It felt like swimming in an aquarium: fish in every shape, size, and colour; coral more varied than anywhere I’d ever seen; water at 29°C. Heaven, but wetter.

Afterwards, I explored the island: active volcanoes, waterfalls, hot springs, a ruined church, an underwater cemetery, and even a spring that squirts soda water. Camiguin is basically a geological theme park.

The day ended with a zip‑line ride. I nearly went twice.

I couldn’t resist another dive. Halfway to the dive shop, the divemaster gave me a ride on his motorbike, prompting much commentary from villagers. The dive boat was a bangka — a Filipino outrigger boat that looks like a dragonfly designed by engineers.

A short ride took us to White Island, where sea life was abundant and the water impossibly clear.

Afterwards, I visited an internet café, which was marginally better than the slow, sporadic connection at Jasmin. I needed cash, but the bank was still offline. I hoped it would wake up by morning.

Rumour had it a ferry ran from Camiguin to Bohol — one daily boat at around 10:30 from Benoni to Jagna. The plan was to catch it the next day.

 

Bohol & Panglao Islands

 

A Ferry Ride to Jagna, Bohol (25 km)

I had plenty of time to cycle to the port — the ferry left around 11:00 — and everything seemed calm enough when we boarded. Then the weather changed its mind.

The ferry rolled, pitched, lurched, and performed manoeuvres normally reserved for stunt planes. People screamed and clung to anything that wasn’t moving. Seasick bags were distributed with the urgency of parachutes. The boat rocked so violently that even the crew looked nervous, which is never reassuring.

The worst part? Not a single visible flotation device. Not even a decorative life ring. We simply sat tight and hoped the captain had a strong relationship with the sea gods.

Two hours later, miraculously, we arrived safely in Jagna. The wind was still howling, and I was in no mood to battle a headwind, so I checked into a scrappy 250‑peso room — the kind of place where the curtains are optional and the bed has opinions — and hid from the weather.

Bohol is part of the Visayas, a sprawling cluster of islands in the middle of the Philippines. There are thousands of them, but nine main ones: Cebu, Bohol, Guimaras, Samar, Leyte, Panay, Negros, Romblon, and Siquijor. I could already see my future: visa extensions, plural.

 

Mangroves, Monitor Lizards, and Morally Confused History (90 km)

The weather cleared, and after acquiring a map from the municipality (breakfast courtesy of a mobile food cart), I set off anti‑clockwise around the island.

The ride was fascinating — utterly different from Mindanao. Mangrove swamps, odd hills, tiny hamlets, sari‑sari stores, and even giant monitor lizards lumbering about.

Talibon, the first town, had a beautiful old church built from coral rock and, somewhat less beautifully, by slaves. Construction began in 1852 and finished in 1899 — apparently the slaves were not in a hurry.

Talibon’s history was even stranger. Legend says Ferdinand Magellan fled from Lapu‑Lapu’s men after raping fifty women in Cebu. His ship, Trinidad, sailed toward Talibon, where crew members disembarked and began educating locals in Christianity. Western morals never fail to astonish.

 

Chocolate Hills and Fighting Cocks (60 km)

The day was blisteringly hot. Islanders insisted the weather was too severe for cycling and invited me for cold drinks under shady trees. I didn’t think heat exhaustion was imminent, but I appreciated their concern.

Tubigon offered sightseeing opportunities, including the famous Chocolate Hills — 1,268 identical mounds said to be the calcified tears of a heartbroken giant. Unfortunately, the moment I reached the viewpoint, the heavens opened and drenched everything, including my photographic hopes.

Accommodation hunting led me down a dirt track past people’s prized fighting cocks to Tubigon Beach Resort. Philippine “resorts” come in all shapes and sizes; this one was a rickety hut on stilts. The walkway wobbled, the floor bounced, and the shower drained straight through a hole in the floor into the sea below. The toilet was halfway between a squat and a throne, and it was best not to investigate where it drained. At 350 pesos, though, one doesn’t complain — one simply hopes gravity behaves.

 

Panglao Island

 

Crab‑Eating Monkeys, European Tourists, and the Tarsier Stare (75 km)

The ride to Alona Beach was short enough to allow plenty of stops. The road followed the Coast past villages with fascinating histories and vast mangrove swamps.

The mangroves were home to crab‑eating macaques — clever monkeys living in matrilineal groups where females rule, and males leave at puberty. They use tools, have attitude, and while I was taking photos, one stole my water bottle. I swear they laughed from the treetops while clutching it triumphantly.

A bridge connected Bohol to Panglao Island, and from there a good road led to Alona Beach — the first place in the Philippines where I saw European tourists. Prices reflected this immediately.

The next day I visited the Tarsier Sanctuary. Philippine tarsiers are tiny — 85 to 160 mm — basically the size of a fist with eyes the size of marbles. Their eyes are fixed in their skulls, so they rotate their heads 180 degrees like polite little owls. They have the largest eye‑to‑body ratio of any mammal, are nocturnal, and have a home range of one to two hectares, which is a lot of territory for something that could fit in a teacup.

Females give birth to one thumb‑sized baby per year and carry it in their mouths. Sadly, these extraordinary creatures are endangered.

 

Cebu Island

 

A Smooth Sea and a GoPro Quest in Cebu City (26 km)

From Tagbilaran’s ferry port, boats to Cebu departed practically every hour — a schedule so efficient it felt un‑Filipino. The ticket was only 500 pesos, and I could walk the bicycle aboard without anyone blinking. The weather was perfect, the sea smooth, and the crossing blissfully uneventful. After the Camiguin–Bohol rollercoaster, this felt like travelling on a floating yoga mat.

Two hours later, we arrived in Cebu City — large, chaotic, and seemingly built entirely out of malls. I headed straight for one of them in search of a GoPro. My logic was simple: if you can’t find something in Cebu, it doesn’t exist anywhere in the known universe.

I spent more money than intended, but emerged the proud owner of a GoPro camera. The shop didn’t have a handlebar mount, but they located a bike shop in Bacolod that promised to keep one until my arrival. This felt like a small miracle.

The entire evening was spent figuring out how to operate my new toy and change the waterproof housing. It was a nifty little thing — and, like all nifty little things, came with instructions written by someone who assumes you already know how it works.

 

Colonial Lanes and Sunday Traffic (85 km)

After a late night of GoPro tinkering, I made a slow start. First stop: the Old Fort, built by the Spanish in 1738. From there, I cycled through the old part of Cebu City — narrow lanes, smelly open sewer canals, and surprisingly beautiful colonial buildings hiding behind the chaos like shy debutantes.

My chosen route went clockwise around the island. Despite being Sunday, the traffic was horrendous. Buses, cars, trucks loaded to the heavens, tricycles, Jeepneys — all inhaling and exhaling fumes with great enthusiasm. I hugged the side of the road but still had to veer off occasionally to avoid oncoming traffic that seemed to believe lanes were optional.

A cluster of cyclists indicated a race. One participant was walking his bike, so I asked if he needed help. He did — an inner tube — and I handed one over. In hindsight, he may not have been thrilled with unsolicited assistance. Cyclists can be funny that way.

Past Argao, rain began falling, and spotting a sign for the Blue Pot Resort, I turned off. “Resort” was a generous term — it was a few bungalows and a roof — but it was dry, and that was enough.

 

Gasoline in Coke Bottles, and a Diver’s Paradise at Moalboal (130 km)

The 130‑kilometre ride to Moalboal followed the Coast, past familiar gasoline stalls selling petrol by the litre in Coca‑Cola bottles. Amazingly, the price was similar to actual gas stations. Judging by the number of motorcycles and tricycles stopping there, business was booming.

Crops were being dried on the tarmac, taking up an entire lane. What amazed me wasn’t that the road was used for drying produce — but that no one ever drove over it. Buses and trucks came to a complete halt and carefully manoeuvred around the crops before continuing. It was a level of respect usually reserved for royalty.

Panagsama Beach, four kilometres from Moalboal, was a diver’s hangout: dive shops, cheap bars, sandy lanes, and boats waiting to whisk divers off to Pescador Island. It was easy‑going, friendly, and full of people who looked permanently sun‑kissed.

 

Diving Bliss, Sardine Tornadoes, and Whale Sharks with Vacuum‑Cleaner Mouths

I came to Moalboal to dive and test the new GoPro. After housekeeping, I went into town to draw more money — diving is an expensive hobby, especially when you’re still learning how not to drain your camera battery in ten minutes.

The first dive was fantastic. Pescador Island offered dramatic walls and abundant marine life. Underwater photography, however, was harder than expected. The battery died. I learned nothing. The second dive, off the beach, was even more impressive — the sardine run was happening, and thousands upon thousands of sardines formed swirling formations like underwater weather systems. The battery died again.

Still, the underwater world was magical — peaceful, surreal, and full of creatures that looked like they’d been designed by committee.

The next day, I joined other travellers for a trip to the whale shark diving area. Getting there required a tricycle and two buses, but by 11:00 we were in the water with nine or ten whale sharks. They floated lazily, sucking in food with their giant vacuum‑cleaner mouths. It was extraordinary — and a perfect chance to play with the GoPro.

That evening, we shared beers and photos at a restaurant. It felt like a proper diver’s rite of passage.

 

It was a shock to realise I’d been in the Philippines for a month — time for a visa extension. After breakfast, I hopped on a bus to Cebu. The bus had onboard Wi‑Fi, which felt luxurious.

A taxi took me to the immigration office, where a room full of people waited for extensions. The process was long and slow, but the day passed quickly. By 15:00, I was back on the bus to Moalboal, visa extension safely stamped.

 

Negros Island

 

A Spontaneous Ferry and a Rural Welcome (60 km)

I reluctantly left Moalboal and headed north. Twenty kilometres later, a sign pointed to a ferry to Negros. With no reason to continue north except to catch that ferry, I took it.

An hour and a half later, we anchored at Basak, Negros— rural, quiet, and charming. Children collected firewood balanced on their heads; others bathed at water pumps. The road was less congested than Cebu, making for a relaxed ride to San Carlos.

Traveller’s Inn offered a comfortable room, and I settled in happily.

 

Sugarcane, Slippery Roads, and a Guesthouse Salvation (85 km)

After breakfast, I headed further north past sugarcane fields and small settlements. The road deteriorated almost immediately — a patchwork of potholes, mud, and despair. Overloaded sugarcane trucks had pulverised the tarmac, and any attempt by the authorities to repair it looked like someone had tried to fix a broken leg with a Band‑Aid.

Rain came and went all day, turning the road into a slippery obstacle course. Progress was slow, and by the time Cadiz appeared, the sight of a guesthouse felt like discovering civilisation after weeks in the wilderness.

 

The Festival of a Thousand Smiling Faces -Bacolod (67 km)

I soldiered onward in sweltering heat, passing Silay and Talisay — known for their old mansions. I kept an eye out for ruins, but the heat made exploring feel like a punishment.

Bacolod was gearing up for its annual MassKara Festival — “a multitude of faces.” The name is a pun on mascara, Filipino for “mask,” and the festival features colourful masks with enormous smiling faces. Luckily, it was only the beginning of the festivities, so accommodation was still available.

My lodging was tucked down a side street in a residential neighbourhood where bicycle rickshaws ferried people along narrow dirt tracks. Dogs slept beside their owners, who sold kebabs from tiny BBQs. Kids ran into the road to wee, and I decided the frequent rain was probably a blessing.

 

Bike Shops, Cheesecake, and the Kindness of Strangers

Bacolod was home to Dan’s Bike Shop — exceptionally professional and the perfect place to service my bike and pick up the GoPro handlebar mount. I zipped up and down the main road in Jeepneys while the professionals worked their magic.

At a mall, a computer shop cleaned my laptop keyboard free of charge. I used the saved money to buy a slice of cheesecake so good it felt like a religious experience.

The market area was only five minutes away but felt worlds apart from the mall’s neon glow. I took most of my photos there. A bicycle rickshaw driver offered me an oven‑fresh bread roll — delicious and heartbreakingly kind. He likely needed it more than I did.

By evening, the bike shop called to say they were still working on the bike. It would be ready in the morning.

 

Buffalo Power, Falling Sugarcane, and Polite Children Everywhere (90 km)

With the bike running like new, I cycled south across massive rivers, rice paddies, and sugarcane fields. Harvesting was in full swing. Water buffalo pulled and tugged in the fields, and trucks loaded sky‑high with sugarcane shed stalks along the road like confetti.

The route passed Bago, Valladolid, Pontevedra, and Hinigaran — each with century‑old churches. The children impressed me most: polite, curious, eager to ask questions, and thrilled to have their photos taken.

One of my Project‑365 friends lived in Kabankalan, and I hoped to meet her. But without a phone and with intermittent Internet, finding a stranger in town proved impossible.

 

Burning Fields, Misty Air, and a Slow Descent to the Coast (83 km)

Morning arrived misty, with pre‑harvest burning smoke hanging thick in the air. Burning sugarcane leaves before harvesting is common worldwide — it makes manual picking easier and less hazardous. It also contributes generously to air pollution.

I cycled through the haze toward Sipalay. Once over the hilly section, the road levelled out and followed the Coast. It was a lovely ride after the previous night’s storm.

I came to Sipalay to explore nearby beaches. Instead, rain poured down all day. I stayed put, happily vegging out. Sometimes the best travel days involve doing nothing at all.

 

Sunday Singing, Nipa Houses, and a Gentle Coastal Ride (79 km)

I left Sipalay early, expecting mountains — and the gradient was indeed sharp. But the morning air was cool, and once over the hills, the road followed the Coast.

It felt like a Sunday afternoon ride: past nipa houses on stilts, sari‑sari stores, buffalo grazing lazily, and small settlements where joyous singing drifted from makeshift churches. Sunday markets spilt onto the road, turning cycling into a slow, cheerful slalom. Bayawan arrived early, and seeing I was in no hurry, I stayed the night.

 

Apo Island

 

Landslides and Bangka Boats (77 km)

The ride to Malatapay was relaxing — the road hugged the Coast, offering stunning views. Heavy rains had caused landslides, taking electrical cables and even houses with them. Road workers were frantically clearing debris. It’s astonishing how much of a mountain can slide off when it feels like it.

Around midday, I reached Malatapay — barely a dot on the map — where a sign pointed to Apo Island. Down a narrow lane, bangka boats waited to whisk people to this pea‑sized island.

With bike and bags loaded, we set sail. The boat anchored at a spot straight out of a travel brochure: idyllic beach, palm trees, turquoise water.

Apo Island had a tiny village, friendly locals, a few homestays, and the well‑organised Liberty Lodge and Dive Resort. The room rate seemed pricey until I learned it included three meals — and dive prices were inexpensive. I couldn’t believe my luck. I put my feet up and ordered a San Miguel beer. As they say, “It’s hell in the tropics.”

I booked a dive; how can I not? Apo Island is one of the top dive spots in the world.

 

Earthquakes, Coral Snakes, and Lukewarm Paradise

The 8 o’clock dive began with a short boat ride to the site. We plunged into the lukewarm Visayan Sea, blissfully unaware that a strong earthquake had hit the region. It was felt on Apo Island, but underwater we noticed nothing. The epicentre was in Bohol — where I had photographed the Chocolate Hills — and the quake severely damaged them.

After chatter and coffee, we geared up for the 11 o’clock dive at Coco Point. It was excellent — I saw my first coral snake, though failed to capture it on film. Some creatures simply refuse to pose.

 

Negros Island

 

Leaving Paradise (25 km)

After a pancake‑and‑fruit breakfast — the kind that makes you briefly consider abandoning society — I left Apo Island and returned to the mainland. A short bike ride took me into Dumaguete, where Harold’s Mansion offered convenient lodging and the comforting sense that backpackers had been spilling beer on its floors for decades.

My notebook had given up the ghost, so I went in search of a replacement. The shop assistant was wonderfully kind and extracted the old hard drive to use as an external one. Paying, however, turned into a quest: the card machine was offline, the bank was offline, and the universe seemed to be offline. Eventually, I found a single ATM willing to spit out pesos. Victory.

 

Siquijor Island

 

Witchcraft Rumours, and a Sunset Worth Moving For (20 km)

With no reason to linger in Dumaguete and no idea where to go next, I stopped at an ATM. A Swedish chap having breakfast with his girlfriend invited me for coffee. As a cycle tourer himself, he recommended Siquijor Island — only an hour away by ferry. Problem solved.

Once in Siquijor town, I set off clockwise around the island. Twenty kilometres later, Sandugan Beach appeared, offering bungalows right on the water under palm trees. Resistance was futile. Soon I was sipping an ice‑cold beer while watching the sun melt into the Bohol Sea — one of the most beautiful sights in the Philippines.

 

Witchcraft and Love Potions (57 km)

After breakfast, I continued my loop around the island. Interestingly, many Filipinos still refuse to visit Siquijor due to its reputation for witchcraft and black magic. The annual Folk Healing Festival probably doesn’t help. I kept my eyes open for lumay — the famous love potion. One never knows when such things may come in handy.

Instead of sorcery, I found a friendly island full of invitations to rest, drink water, and join meals. Road workers looked genuinely disappointed when I declined their lunch. Explaining that I don’t usually eat while cycling confused them deeply. Filipinos consider three meals a day insufficient — one must nibble constantly. “You are starving!” one exclaimed, horrified.

The island was smaller than expected, and fifty‑seven kilometres later I rolled into Siquijor town. Not wanting to enter the city proper, I found a nipa hut overlooking the ocean. Perfect.

 

Negros Island (Again)

 

A Quick Hop Back and a Surprise Street Party

In the morning, a short ride took me to the jetty, and soon I was back in Dumaguete. Harold’s Mansion was the easiest option for the night.

Unfortunately, no ferries ran from Dumaguete to Panay (the next island). The only option was to return to Bacolod, where a ferry operated to Iloilo. That evening, I stumbled upon a lively street party and a waterfront festival — music, food, dancing, and general merriment. A delightful surprise.

 

A Coastal Cruise, Friendly Company, and Fried Rice Salvation (92 km)

Rather than retrace my route to Bacolod, I decided to cycle anti‑clockwise around Negros. The ride was surprisingly beautiful — the road hugged the Coast for most of the day, making it leisurely and scenic.

Hanseatic Resort sat right along the water. The owner was friendly, and we chatted until sunset. After a much‑needed shower and beer, I devoured a large plate of fried rice. Bliss.

 

A Coffee Panic, and a Rain‑Soaked Finish (82 km)

While enjoying a cup of homegrown Robusta coffee, frantic knocking erupted at my door. The owner feared my bike had been stolen — I usually brought it inside. She was terribly upset: guests who arrived late the previous night had departed without paying. She may have suspected we were all in cahoots. It was sad — she needed the money far more than her dishonest visitors.

The ride along the Coast was effortless until the final forty kilometres, which were spent cycling through bucketing rain. Thankfully, I didn’t need to search for accommodation — I went straight to Amu Tourist Inn.

Arriving in San Carlos completed my full loop around Negros Island. A satisfying end to a wet day.

 

Panay Island

 

The Magic of Local Knowledge (30 km)

From Bacolod, ferries ran to Panay Island — cheap, cheerful, and determined to drop you at Dumangas instead of Iloilo, leaving a 25‑kilometre cycle into the city. On board was another cyclist, Roger Gonzales Aristoki, who planned to cycle to Ajuy the next morning. We pedalled into town together, and he kindly pointed out budget accommodation. There’s nothing quite like local knowledge — he saved me pesos and probably a headache.

 

Becoming the Pied Piper (120 km)

I left early, blessed with slight cloud cover — the cyclist’s equivalent of divine intervention. The kilometres ticked by effortlessly. The road crossed large rivers, passed hamlets, basketball‑playing kids, rice paddies, and water buffalo grazing with the serenity of creatures who have never paid taxes.

Altavas had only one guesthouse, but the owner was out of town. Villagers insisted the next town — forty kilometres away — could be reached within an hour. They were convinced cyclists travel at 45 km/h. I didn’t have the heart to explain physics.

Eventually, I found basic rooms above a hardware store. The room had a fan, proudly referred to as an “electric fan,” which made me wonder what other types of fans they imagined existed.

When I went for a walk, nearly the entire village followed me. I felt like the Pied Piper, except instead of rats, I had curious, delighted humans.

 

Boracay Island

 

A Scenic Ride and Tourist Herding to Boracay (107 km)

I left Altavas early, enjoying the cool morning air. As expected, reaching Kalibo took considerably longer than the villagers’ optimistic one‑hour prediction. The final stretch ran along the Coast — hilly but scenic — and I felt good, speeding up and down past villages and vendors until reaching Caticlan.

Caticlan was a preview of chaos: bangka boats lined up to ferry tourists to Boracay. It felt like a cattle drive — we were hustled aboard for the short crossing, herded with efficiency and zero ceremony.

Boracay itself was an over‑commercialised madhouse. Tourists everywhere — eating, drinking, swimming, shopping, repeating. Bali looked like a monastery in comparison.

Finding accommodation was easy, and soon I was wriggling my toes in the sand, sipping a beer, and ordering a pizza. Assimilation complete.

 

The Strange Feeling of Not Belonging

Boracay was expensive — painfully so. I’m sure cheaper dorm rooms existed somewhere, but diving and other activities were nearly double the price of anywhere else in the Philippines. Only the beer remained blessedly affordable.

I sat watching the madness — tourists everywhere, Filipinos working everywhere — and felt oddly suspended between worlds. Not Filipino, not a typical tourist. Just a cyclist with sandy toes, a beer, and a front‑row seat to the island’s perpetual carnival.

 

Mindoro Island

 

Rock Legends and Election Day Boracay

As relaxing as Boracay was, I felt the urge to move along before I turned into one of those tourists who never leave the beach except to buy another coconut shake. At the ferry port, bangka boats zipped back to Caticlan, where ferries departed for Roxas on Mindoro Island.

The crossing took about five hours — perfect for hauling out my ancient iPod and revisiting the soundtrack of my youth. I went through them all: The Who, Rolling Stones, Queen, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, The Doors. It was like travelling with six unruly rock bands in my pocket.

Around five o’clock, we sailed into the rather forlorn port of Roxas. A map would’ve been helpful, but the tourist office was closed — it was Sunday, and apparently the next day was election day, so they’d simply decided to close early. Or perhaps they’d closed days ago. Who knows?

Too late to cycle anywhere meaningful, I checked into a conveniently located guesthouse and called it a night.

 

A Public Holiday and Mangyan Tribes (128 km)

I followed my nose toward Calapan — ferries to Batangas City depart from there — though no one could tell me exactly how far away it was. Once outside Roxas, a sign announced 126 kilometres. Problem solved.

It was a public holiday, so even the rice mills were closed, making the ride wonderfully peaceful.

I was delighted to learn that indigenous tribes still lived on Mindoro. Collectively known as the Mangyans, they comprise twelve tribes, each with its own language and culture. They originally lived along the Coast, fishing peacefully, until settlers arrived from nearby islands. To avoid conflict, the Mangyans retreated into the mountains, where they’ve since been treated as second‑class citizens — exploited, neglected, and discriminated against. A depressingly familiar story.

The terrain was less mountainous than expected, and with that blessing, I reached Calapan after a long but pleasant day.

 

Buffalo Riders and UNESCO Reefs (54 km)

Every island had its own vibe, and Mindoro felt more tribal and traditional. Farmers rode water buffalo — not your everyday transport — and villagers worked the fields in ways that felt older than time.

Puerto Galera was the place to go: its coral reefs are so extensive and diverse they’ve been declared a UNESCO Man and Biosphere Reserve. That sounded promising, so I set off toward Sabang Beach.

The road was mountainous, and I wheezed my way up the hills like a malfunctioning accordion. But rounding a corner to find a magnificent waterfall cascading down the mountain made every gasp worth it.

A few hills later, I reached Puerto Galera, and six more hilly kilometres delivered me to Sabang Beach — a tiny dive‑centric settlement with thirty dive shops, countless restaurants, and guesthouses perched above turquoise water. It was stunning. I couldn’t believe I’d almost skipped Mindoro entirely.

I found a room right on the water’s edge and settled in happily.

The next morning was dive time. With Capt’n Gregg’s crew, we headed to Sabang Point. Visibility was good, sea life abundant, and the sixty‑five‑minute dive at twenty metres was delightful. The water was a comfortable 28°C — perfect for a three‑millimetre wetsuit.

I did, however, get stung on the lip. Years ago, the same thing happened, and I still have a tiny scar. The skin sheds like a snake — a fun party trick, if one attends very strange parties. Thank heavens it wasn’t a hair. Or worse.

 

Visa Panic and Drift Diving at Sabang Beach

A shocking discovery: only two days remained on my visa. Time flies when you’re underwater. The tour operator doubled as a visa consultant, so I left my passport with him. The process would take five days — but who minds when surrounded by thirty dive sites?

Later, I joined Capt’n Gregg’s for a 9 o’clock dive. We drifted along Sabang Wrecks for fifty‑five minutes at twenty metres. Plenty of fish, plenty of photos — though with a GoPro, you must be practically nose‑to‑nose with your subject to get a decent shot.

 

Snorkelling Science at Sabang Beach

Shocked at how much I’d spent on diving, I opted for snorkelling. The colours were spectacular in shallow water. Scuba diving steals colours quickly: red disappears at fifteen feet, orange at twenty‑five, yellow at thirty‑five to forty‑five, and green around seventy. Colours vanish underwater in the same order they appear in the spectrum — a neat fact that makes you feel clever while floating around like a jellyfish.

Objects also appear up to 25% closer and 33% larger underwater. A comforting thought when whale sharks swim past.

 

Cockfighting Horror, and a Swift Exit

By now, the routine was an early dive at Dungeon Wall — schools of fish, unique corals, peaceful underwater bliss.

Then I decided to investigate cockfighting, the Philippines’ second‑most popular sport after basketball. Summoning courage, I entered the arena. It was well‑organised, with a proper ring and concrete benches.

Two men entered, each holding a rooster. They placed them in the centre. The birds puffed up, then launched at each other in a blur of feathers and razor blades. Blood spurted, spectators cheered, money changed hands, and I wanted to flee immediately. It was a fight to the death. I lasted two rounds before escaping. Phew.

 

The Alma Jane

The dive shop offered a two‑tank dive: first to the wreck of the Alma Jane, scuttled in 2003 and resting upright at thirty metres. Currents can be strong, so skippers maintain a buoy line to prevent divers from drifting into oblivion.

The second dive was along Dungeon Wall. Both were incredible. I teamed up with Mads, the divemaster, who had the best buoyancy control I’ve ever seen. He moved like a thought.

 

Passport Collected, Time to Move On

Finally, my passport was ready. It was late in the day, so I decided to catch the ferry to Batangas City in the morning.

 

Luzon Island - Manila & the Typhoon Interlude

 

The “Mainland,” and a Volcano with Attitude (61 km)

From the tiny Sabang jetty, large motorised bangka boats ferried passengers to Luzon —referred to as “the mainland,” as if the Philippines were a small archipelago orbiting Manila. The crossing took barely an hour, and once in Batangas City, I headed north toward the capital.

Sadly, bicycles were banned from the toll road — a pity, since it was wide, smooth, and safe. Instead, I was forced onto a narrow, chaotic road where everything from Jeepneys to chickens travelled at alarming speeds.

At Tanauan, a secondary road veered toward Talisay, where I hoped to catch a boat across Taal Lake to the famous Taal Volcano. Unfortunately, the boat ride was priced as though I were chartering a private yacht. I declined and settled into basic lakeside accommodation instead, watching the sunset over the peaceful lake and its deceptively innocent volcano.

I was keen to hike it — Taal is reputedly the world’s smallest active volcano. All Philippine volcanoes form part of the Pacific Ring of Fire, a horseshoe‑shaped zone of 40,000 kilometres containing 75% of the world’s active and dormant volcanoes. Taal itself erupted in January 2020 after 43 years of silence, spewing ash a kilometre high and shutting down schools, flights, and general optimism.

 

A Hill, a Highway, and Manila’s Never‑Ending Jeepney Parade (88 km)

Cycling back up the hill I’d descended the previous day wasn’t nearly as bad as expected. Manila’s traffic, however, was far worse. The National Highway led straight into the city, threading through towns and villages in a continuous stream of bumper‑to‑bumper Jeepneys, trucks, buses, and fumes.

The short distance of 88 kilometres took practically the entire day. By the time I reached Manila, I felt as though I’d inhaled half the city’s exhaust output.

In Melati, I found solid accommodation — comforting, given the forecasted super typhoon, predicted to be the strongest ever to make landfall in the Philippines. Flights and ferries were cancelled, and everyone hunkered down at Pension Natividad. The place was packed with stranded travellers, but the mood remained surprisingly jovial. Nothing bonds people like shared uncertainty.

 

Typhoon Haiyan

Though overcast and rainy, Manila escaped the worst. The southern islands suffered severely — Typhoon Haiyan made landfall with winds up to 315 km/h, killing 6,300 people and wiping out entire villages.

In Manila, people waited for flights and ferries to resume. Many couldn’t contact family as communication lines were down. With John and Matthew — both living on Coron Island — we walked to the harbour to find information about a ship to Palawan. We found nothing. So, we returned to the pension and had a beer instead. Sometimes that’s the only sensible response.

 

Intramuros, Homeless Communities, and a Convenient Mall

The weather improved enough for a wander. Manila, with its 20 million inhabitants, was a sprawling, chaotic, polluted metropolis. Homeless communities lived along the pavements, seemingly content despite the fume‑belching Jeepneys roaring past.

I walked along the seafront, past Rizal Park, to Intramuros — the old Spanish capital. A crumbling wall still partially surrounded it. Much was destroyed in World War II, but the area remained fascinating.

On the way back, I passed Robinson’s Mall — a convenient stop with a well‑stocked supermarket. Back at the pension, rumours circulated of a boat departing to Coron Island on Wednesday.

 

Manila - Ancient Boats and Sikh Hospitality

Bjorn from the guesthouse joined me for a stroll to the National Museum. The Butuan boats were extraordinary — excavated in 1997 and dating to 320 AD, they proved early Filipinos were seafaring and technologically advanced. Artefacts showed they traded beyond the Philippines. Even more astonishing: the largest vessel of its kind yet discovered was unearthed in Butuan City, possibly centuries older than the ships used by European explorers in the 1500s.

Nibbling street food, we wandered toward the Palace, hoping to glimpse Imelda Marcos’s legendary 3,000 pairs of shoes. On the way, we passed a Sikh Temple celebrating the 544th birthday of Shri Guru Nanak Dev Ji. We were issued headscarves, invited inside, and served the best Indian food I’d had since leaving India. A wonderful, unexpected experience.

The Palace itself was unremarkable, so we continued to Chinatown. Back at the pension, rumours circulated of another storm approaching. During the previous one, all ferries had been suspended.

 

Rain, Failed Bike Shop Hunts, and a Skyline Quest

We all waited for news about the new storm. Meanwhile, I cycled around Manila in search of a bike shop but couldn’t find the one I wanted. I looked for a vantage point to photograph the skyline, but rain returned, and I went back to the pension empty‑handed.

 

A TV Crew, a Choreographer, and a Hair‑Raising Ride Home

I braved the Jeepney sea again and cycled into what felt like the lion’s den. This time, I found a bike shop down a small residential lane. While the professionals worked on my bike, I explored the neighbourhood.

The street was blocked off — a TV crew was arriving the next morning to film a programme. A choreographer gathered residents and taught them a dance routine in minutes. Professionals make everything look easy.

By the time my bike was ready, darkness had fallen. Riding back without lights in Manila traffic was… character‑building. I followed a pedicab, which also had no lights but was excellent at weaving through chaos. I was very pleased with myself for arriving unscathed.

 

Peace Corps Refugees and Ferry Tickets

At Robinson’s Mall, I found a ferry company selling tickets to Palawan. I bought one to Puerto Princesa — weather permitting.

A large contingent of American Peace Corps staff moved into the guesthouse. They had been evacuated from Central Visayas after the typhoon and were now in Manila indefinitely. Although staying free of charge, some complained about sleeping in dormitories. When asked when they’d return, they said they didn’t know — “there’s no way we can be taken care of.” I had assumed they were the ones taking care of people.

I spent the day looking for a contact number to help the affected islands. No luck — communication was impossible. Best to leave it to the professionals. They were overwhelmed enough without inexperienced volunteers showing up.

 

Palawan Island

 

The Ferry to Puerto Princesa.

Cycling to the pier felt liberating after days of Manila’s Jeepney‑infested chaos. The ferry itself was a delightful surprise: large, stable, air‑conditioned sleeping quarters, entertainment on deck, and staff who burst into spontaneous dance routines as we sailed out of Manila Bay. It was like boarding a floating variety show.

The weather was perfect. I sat outside in shorts and a T‑shirt, listening to music long past midnight.

Morning broke over hundreds of islands — a spectacular sight, strangely more Mediterranean than tropical. Breakfast was included: a polystyrene container with rice, a boiled egg, and something resembling mince. It was edible, which is all one can ask of ferry food.

We arrived in Puerto Princesa shortly after  midnight. Disembarkation was quick and orderly — a rare miracle — and I cycled into town to find Casa Luna, a recommended guesthouse with rooms arranged around a courtyard. Perfect.

 

Caves, Zip Lines, and Eight Kilometres of Darkness

In Puerto Princesa I arranged a tour to the underground river for the next morning, then headed to the bank to withdraw as much money as possible. Rumour had it this was the only ATM on the island. I treated it with reverence.

The drive to the underground river included a stop at Ugong Cave — a twenty‑metre rock formation one could climb through using ropes. At the top, instead of climbing back down, I took a zip line. Twenty seconds later, I was on the ground feeling like a superhero.

The underground river, located in a national park, was immensely touristy but worth it. Turquoise water disappeared into the mountain’s darkness, running for almost eight kilometres. We explored only 1.5 kilometres, drifting past stalagmites, stalactites, and limestone formations that looked like they’d been sculpted by bored giants.

 

Hospitality and a Village Circus (13 km)

I set off early, prepared for a long day of cycling. Instead, I biked a record‑breaking thirteen kilometres. A sign pointed to Honda Bay, and curiosity won.

At a small jetty, boats left for nearby islands. I befriended Edna, who sold boat tickets and owned a tiny property with two nipa rooms. She offered me one for 200 pesos — supper included, plus a pig in the yard. Travel doesn’t get better than that.

The boat ticket was pricey for one person, but Edna arranged for me to join a Manila family on their outing. They were wonderfully kind, sharing their food: salted eggs, eggplant with garlic and chilli, fried fish, and snacks I couldn’t identify but happily ate. We visited three islands, and I felt deeply grateful — they had no idea what a treat it was.

Back at the jetty, Edna whisked me home. She prepared rice, fresh fish, and octopus, but the power went out. Unperturbed, she carried everything next door to a neighbour’s barbecue.

As darkness fell, villagers came to inspect the stranger in their midst. We wandered to the basketball court — the centre of all social life. One half was used by teenagers shooting hoops, the other by kids doing cartwheels and jumping elastic rope. Mobile vendors sold snacks, children performed silly bicycle tricks, and older boys stood around trying to look cool.

I’m fairly sure I met the entire village. It was travelling at its very best.

 

Heat, Hills, Vomiting, and Sheer Stupidity Honda Bay (128 km)

I didn’t expect the day to be quite so challenging. The weather was scorching, the hills steep, and for reasons unknown, I felt awful — upset stomach, nausea, and halfway through, vomiting and cramping. It was a day requiring mental strength bordering on stupidity.

I pushed the bike up sharp hills, stopping every few metres to rub my legs and vomit. It took nearly the entire day to reach Roxas, where I collapsed in exhaustion. No appetite, no energy, no desire to eat anything.

 

Hills, and a Colonial Fort (80 km)

I assumed the day would be difficult. I was correct. I should’ve stayed put, but stubbornness prevailed. Still nauseous, I stopped at a chemist for anti‑cramp and anti‑nausea medication, plus vitamins.

Depleted of energy, I struggled onwards, walking the bike and resting constantly. Eventually — and with immense relief — I reached Taytay, an old colonial town with a fort and historic church.

I collapsed again. Soup from the restaurant helped, and with rehydration salts and water, I hoped for recovery.

The next day, I barely had enough energy to explore Taytay Fort (Fuerza de Santa Isabel), built in 1667 and completed in 1738. Thankfully, I didn’t set off again. By evening, I felt much better.

 

Paved Roads, and a Perfect Beach Evening (70 km)

People warned me about the road to El Nido — gravel, hilly, miserable. Instead, it was a pleasant surprise: mostly paved, not too steep, and scenic.

El Nido had plenty of accommodation. I found a lovely guesthouse a few streets from the beach, reasonably priced and run by welcoming owners.

It rained on and off the next day — perfect for exploring the tiny village. I booked a dive for the following morning: three dives, boat trip, lunch included. The evening was spent with supper and a beer on the beach. Bliss.

 

El Nido - Three Dives, Limestone Drama, and a Dizzy Mystery

The boat left around 08:30. The first dive was along a wall — beautiful but not spectacular. I was surprised at the lack of coral and life. Above water, however, the scenery was dramatic: limestone pinnacles and cliffs so cinematic that movies had been filmed there.

The second dive was far more exciting — large fish, octopus, giant shrimp. Both dives were around fifty‑five minutes at twenty‑five metres, with water at 28°C.

Lunch was on a tiny white beach with crystal‑clear turquoise water — like stepping into a painting.

The final dive was incredible — massive coral and abundant sea creatures.

Then, on the boat, I became dizzy, disoriented, and suffered blurred vision. A peculiar distant sensation washed over me. I drank water, lay down, and felt better by the time we reached the mainland. I suspected a balance disorder — possibly sinus medication, possibly dehydration, possibly the universe reminding me I’m mortal.

 

 

Busuanga Island - Coron Town & the Wreck‑Diving Wonderland

 

Seven Hours, and a Bay Full of Ghost Ships

The ferry from El Nido to Coron town on Busuanga Island was scenic enough to make you forget you were on an open boat for seven hours. Lunch was provided: a small fish and a heroic amount of rice, the Filipino national ratio.

Coron is famous for its World War II wreck‑diving. In September 1944, a fleet of Japanese ships hiding in the harbour was sunk in a daring U.S. Navy raid. The result: ten well‑preserved shipwrecks now surrounded by coral reefs, like underwater museums curated by Poseidon.

There wasn’t much to do in Coron except dive and watch the sunset over the bay — both excellent options. I headed to Seadive Resort, a massive, ramshackle complex with rooms, restaurants, bars, and dive shops. It looked like someone had built a resort out of driftwood and optimism. The diving operation seemed well organised, so I booked a three‑tank dive for the next day.

 

Boiling Lakes, Crocodile Fish, and a Gunboat for Dessert

The first dive was unusual: a lake/hot spring. We took a boat, swam to shore, then scrambled over rocks in full diving gear — a process that made us look like confused amphibians. At fifteen metres, the water temperature shot up to a boiling 38°C. The thermoclines were visible, shimmering like underwater heat waves. We followed the wall for twenty minutes and returned, completing a forty‑minute dive. Very cool. Or rather, very hot.

Next was the Olympia Maru, a Japanese supply ship lying on her starboard side at twenty‑five metres. Vision was appalling — like diving through soup — but we penetrated the wreck anyway, swimming through the prop shaft and into the engine room past two huge boilers. A crocodile fish lurked nearby, looking mildly offended by our presence. We even spotted old kaolin bricks once used to fire the boilers.

The third dive was the Tangat Wreck, a small forty‑metre gunboat lying in shallow water — perfect for a final dive of the day.

 

A Seaplane Carrier, a Freighter, and a Coral‑Covered Gunboat

The next day brought another three‑wreck dive. First up: the IJN Akitsushima, a seaplane carrier lying on her port side at thirty‑seven metres. She was enormous — 118 metres long, armed with anti‑aircraft guns, five‑inch guns, and once carried a Kanwanishi flying boat. The flying boat disappeared during the attack; presumably it took off before the sinking, though one imagines the pilot had a very stressful morning.

The crane used to lift the seaplane was still intact, lying on the sandy bottom and attracting enormous schools of fish. We entered the wreck, swam through a large crack that nearly split the ship in half, and manoeuvred into the engine room through dark, narrow passages. Afterwards, we devoured most of the boat’s coffee and snacks.

Next was the Taiei Maru, a 137‑metre Japanese freighter lying on her starboard side. The cargo rooms and engine room allowed easy penetration, making it a fun dive.

The final dive was the Lusong Gunboat, lying in shallow water between three and eighteen metres. Hard corals covered the wreck, and despite poor visibility, we saw plenty of fish. This time, there were several divers, and the atmosphere between dives was lively — laughter, stories, and shared snacks. By evening, we were too lazy to go anywhere and stayed at the restaurant drinking beer and eating pizza.

Seadive Resort, perched on the water’s edge in the middle of town, was the perfect place to hang out. Days slipped by unnoticed, except for the constant socialising with a bunch of wonderfully crazy divers.

 

A Late Ferry to Manila, and Typhoon Yolanda’s Scars

In the morning, I settled my bill, loaded the bike, and cycled to the ferry. It was late — departing at 19:00 instead of 15:30 — giving me plenty of time to wander around town.

Coron had been in the eye of Typhoon Yolanda, and the damage was still visible. Seeing the devastation first‑hand made the storm’s reality sink in — twisted metal, shattered homes, and landscapes still bearing scars.

 

Luzon Island - The Final Northern Loop

 

Traffic Trauma and Makati Glamour

The ferry to Manila was comfortable, but the short ride from the port to Pension Natividad was a baptism by Jeepney. Manila traffic is not so much “traffic” as a slow‑moving urban organism with the temperament of a rhinoceros. Still, by ten o’clock I was safely checked in.

The next day I visited Makati — a completely different universe. Clean streets, high‑rise buildings, designer stores, and not a single Jeepney belching fumes. It felt like someone had accidentally teleported me to Singapore. I was there to apply for a Taiwanese visa, and judging by the number of people in the waiting room, half of Manila had the same idea. By half past one, the deed was done. The visa would take three days.

With time to kill, I got a haircut for 150 pesos and, while the lady snipped away, I had a pedicure for an additional 100. I emerged looking far more polished than any cyclist has a right to.

Pam from the South African Dragon Boat team put me in touch with Sandy, who invited me to join their practice. At 4 in the morning, I found myself paddling with the Manila Dragons. It was fabulous — and nostalgic — hearing the familiar call: “Crew… are you ready? Attention. GO!” I suspected I’d be sore for days.

I bummed around town until visa‑collection day. Visas could only be collected after midday, so it was past five o’clock before I escaped the building. Friday peak hour in Manila is a special kind of purgatory. It took forever to reach the guesthouse, but at least I was finally ready to leave Manila.

 

A Highway That Shrinks as You Ride (81 km)

I wasn’t ready to leave the Philippines — the vast northern region still beckoned. Leaving the pension, I cycled past the waterfront where Dragon Boat races were underway. I cheered on my favourite team and snapped a few photos.

Being Sunday, traffic was less apocalyptic. The northern outskirts of Manila were an eye‑opener: shacks encroached onto the road until the three‑lane highway became two. Still, it was surprisingly uncomplicated to get out of town. If I went wrong, I didn’t know it — blissful ignorance is a wonderful navigational tool.

The traffic never fully cleared, and the road remained congested for nearly 80 kilometres. San Fernando offered food and accommodation, and I gratefully stopped.

 

A Chatty Cyclist and the Road to Pinatubo (70 km)

A windowless room meant I slept far later than intended. Breakfast was from 7‑Eleven — the cyclist’s emergency pantry — and I continued north.

The area immediately north of Manila felt like a different country entirely. I met Ray Cayabyab, cycling home to San Carlos on a rusty bike with a front basket. He spoke excellent English, and we chatted whenever traffic allowed. He had to stop at every petrol station to pump his tyre, but his enthusiasm was undiminished.

Planning to visit Mount Pinatubo, I waved Ray goodbye and turned off toward Santa Juliana — a tiny settlement with a tourist office and a handful of houses. The staff gave me all the volcano info and pointed me to Bognot Homestay, run by Alvin and Angie. Being the only accommodation, I quickly met other travellers, and we decided to visit the crater together in the morning.

 

Ancient Peoples and a Peaceful Crater at Mt Pinatubo

At 5 o’clock the next morning, a 4WD jeep took us on a bumpy, dusty ride along a riverbed. The landscape was stark and barren, with only the occasional water buffalo.

We passed Aeta communities — indigenous people who look entirely different from other Filipinos. Thought to be among the earliest inhabitants of the Philippines, they likely arrived via land bridges 30,000 years ago. They resisted Spanish attempts to settle them, and thank goodness — they remain distinct, resilient, and fascinating.

Eventually, the jeep could go no further, and we hiked for an hour along a stream to Crater Lake. It was far larger than expected — peaceful, turquoise, and impossible to reconcile with the devastation it caused in 1991. We soaked up the tranquillity, took photos, and retraced our steps.

Back in Santa Juliana, already past midday, I was too lazy to continue and stayed put.

 

The Death March Memorial and a Mercifully Easy Ride (77 km)

On the way to the main road, I stopped at the sombre Death March Memorial — the final stage of the tragic WWII march where thousands of prisoners died from starvation, beatings, and brutality. A wall bore the names of the dead. War is such a sad, senseless thing.

The rest of the day was pleasant and uncomplicated. I reached Camiling in the midday heat and found budget accommodation. No reason to push on — I wasn’t part of the Death March.

 

Garlic Rice, Lingayen Gulf, and 123 Mushroom Islands (88 km)

Breakfast was the classic Filipino combo: garlic rice, fried egg, and longanisa sausage. The road was flat and enjoyable, leading to the Lingayen Gulf. At the junction, I turned left — simply because I felt like it — and headed toward Lucap.

Lucap, gateway to the Hundred Islands National Park, was well organised. Sweet Honey’s, a family‑run establishment, offered a reasonably priced room and arranged a boat for the next day.

In the morning, the boatman was already waiting. My host had packed lunch and water in a cooler box — incredibly sweet. We set off to explore the islands: 123 tiny mushroom‑shaped islets, some with beaches, caves, and snorkelling spots.

The snorkelling was superb — fish everywhere, fantastic corals, and giant clams being reintroduced after dynamite fishing wiped them out. It was a wonderful trip, worth every peso.

 

Churches, Crab Sellers, and the Quest for a Bed (111 km)

After backtracking thirty‑five kilometres to the junction, I headed north along the Coast — past villages with fascinating churches, furniture makers, and crab sellers who looked like they’d been waiting all day for someone exactly like me.

The headwind was gentle, the heat intense, and the rivers plentiful. Fishing methods ranged from ingenious to downright improbable. Vendors sold clams, oysters, dried fish, fresh fish, crabs — basically anything the sea had ever thought about producing.

Agoo appeared as a tiny village with a basilica and seemed perfect for overnighting. Finding accommodation, however, was a treasure hunt with no treasure. A few kilometres to the beach revealed only one dilapidated, overpriced establishment. I returned to town in search of a “Transient Room,” which, as I quickly learned, is not meant for sleeping so much as… brief social engagements.

Eventually, I found a place with a restaurant. Starving, I rushed to a nearby eatery where waitresses in Christmas hats eyed me like a suspicious apparition. I suspected I was their first western‑looking customer. They kept their distance while taking my order, and I had a strong urge to go “Boo!” with claws and big eyes. But hunger won — I behaved myself.

 

A Failed Bus Adventure, and Weather That Said “No” (50 km)

In the morning, I cycled to San Juan — famous for its waves and surfing lessons. Regrettably, none were dirt‑cheap. I ended up in a pricey surf hangout full of people practising the “cool surf” attitude: bored, disinterested, vaguely damp.

The next morning, I moved to a cheaper, friendlier place and bumped into Lionel (from Coron).

The grand plan: take a bus into the mountains to see the rice terraces and hanging coffins. I packed a small backpack, left my bike and bags at the Inn, and moseyed to the bus stop. The bus never arrived. Irritated, I returned to the guesthouse. Patience is not my strong suit.

Then came a sore throat, blocked nose, bucketing rain, and howling wind. Cycling north to Laoag suddenly seemed foolish — especially since flights from Laoag still went via Manila, making everything more expensive. No ferries existed between the Philippines and Taiwan. Flying was the only option.

 

Dust and Roadworks (100 km)

Bored, I swallowed flu tablets and pointed the bike toward Manila along a slightly different route. The day was marked by slow traffic, endless roadworks, and dust — lots of dust. By the time I reached Urdaneta City, I was ready to collapse into a room and watch TV, something I hadn’t done in ages.

 

A Familiar Hotel (120 km)

Cycling with a cold is not recommended, but favourable conditions made it manageable. The road passed unusual stalls selling dried fish and other mysterious produce. Eventually, I found myself back in San Fernando — at the same hotel as before. A strange kind of homecoming.

 

Chinatown Chaos and Pre‑Christmas Jeepney Dodging (76 km)

The final leg of my Filipino journey was marred by slow traffic and dusty roadworks. Cycling into Manila, I somehow ended up in the middle of Chinatown at midday on the last Saturday before Christmas.

It was chaos incarnate. Jeepneys, tricycles, vendors, shoppers — all swirling in a festive tornado. I ducked and dived through the madness like a seasoned pro, proud of my survival instincts.

 

Festive Manila, Closed Shops, and Luggage Anxiety

Manila was in full festive mode. The waterfront teemed with food vendors, strollers, cyclists, and hawkers. Little was achieved in organising my Taiwan trip — bike shops and travel agents were closed on Sundays. But I discovered one could upgrade luggage to forty‑five kilograms for a small fee. Excellent news, as flying with a bike is financially traumatic.

 

A Ticket to Taipei, and a Fiery Sunset

Finally, I bought a ticket to Taipei and took the bike to be boxed. The rest of the day was spent sorting gear.

That evening, I strolled along the promenade and understood why Manila is called the Pearl of the Orient. The sunset was spectacular — a massive ball of fire sinking into calm water. With no wind and a pleasant 28°C, I couldn’t imagine a better final day in the Philippines.

 

A Jeepney Ride with a Boxed Bike, and a New Country at Dawn

My flight was at 11 o'clock, giving me the entire day to “play” in Manila. I didn’t play much — mostly caught up on social and business matters.

Collecting the boxed bike required a Jeepney ride back to the pension — bike and all. It was a performance worthy of applause.

The flight to Taiwan was uneventful. We landed in Taipei around 2 in the morning. Everything went smoothly — luggage, bike, all present and accounted for. The hostel wasn’t open until 9, and the bike shop only opened at 10 o’clock.

I slept soundly on the soft airport couches and waited for daylight before venturing into this new country.

 

EPILOGUE

By the time I reached Manila for the last time, I had cycled thousands of kilometres, boarded more ferries than I could count, dived on shipwrecks, climbed volcanoes, and eaten things I still can’t explain. The Philippines had become a collage of moments: buffalo in rice fields, coral walls dropping into blue infinity, typhoon‑shaken towns, and sunsets that looked painted by someone showing off.

On my final evening, I walked along Manila Bay as the sun sank into the water like a giant ember. The city was festive, noisy, warm — and strangely familiar. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t thinking about the next ferry or the next hill. I was thinking about how a place can overwhelm you one day and feel like home the next.

The next night I would fly to Taiwan, my bike boxed and my bags packed. But standing on the promenade, watching that last Philippine sunset, I realised the country had given me exactly what I came for: surprise, welcome, humility, and change.

I arrived with no purpose except travelling. Somewhere between Mindanao and Luzon, the Philippines gave me one anyway.