Adventures In Boracay: Part I

A few years ago, Jenn and I went to the Philippines and decided to spend a week on the island of Boracay. My eldest son Keegan had been before and highly recommended it as it had been rated one of the best vacation spots in the world; the water was crystal blue, and the beaches were like white talcum powder. * SPECIAL NOTE * I've included some raw, unedited videos of our experiences below. Part of this excursion was to scout locations for a possible Dropbear And Panda production and get story ideas. Oh boy, did we get some great ideas.

"You want the trike experience."

We booked ourselves into a 4-star hotel right on the beach, but to get there, we first had to fly into Malay, land at the Caticlan Airport, and take a ferry onto Boracay. Keegan said, "When you get off the plane, don't take the hotel limos; walk down to the beach and get a motorized trike to take you." Keegan further explained, "You can get a limo anywhere in the world. You want the 'trike' experience." After we disembarked from the plane, gathered our many giant suitcases, and made our way through the airport. We passed several commandos with submachine guns known as "The Special Action Force," past the line of limos (all beautifully appointed, clean, probably bullet-proof, and no doubt with air conditioning) and down to the beach to the trike stand. Jenn and I traded looks. "We're here for the adventure, right?" I asked. Jenn smiled weakly, looked back to the line of limos, back to the line of trikes, down to our giant suitcases, steeled herself with optimistic determination, and nodded to the first trike driver. DRIVING INTO TOWN ON A TRIKE

"Let's do this," she said.

The motorized trikes of the Philippines can best be described as Frankenbikes. Picture a 1970's era 50cc dirt bike attached to an abandoned rickshaw made entirely of shopping carts, old bicycle tires, baling wire, and the creative use of duct tape. Our driver helped us put our luggage in the "trunk" of the trike, and I swear I saw the front wheel lift off the ground slightly. He showed us where to sit, made sure we were comfortable and kickstarted his bike. Blue smoke poured out from the pistons, and with the speed and dexterity of a riding mower running on weak moonshine, we lurched down the beach towards the ferry terminal.

APPROACHING THE FERRY TERMINAL

We never did get our driver's name; he just smiled, said "Yes sir" a lot, pointed at random things, and expertly navigated his trike around cows, three-legged dogs, children playing in the middle of the road, and the myriad of other trikes, trucks, and limos motoring around us in all directions. Roads leading to the ferry terminal weren't bad. I was expecting more of a suggestion of roads than the decent macadam we rode on. Children waved at us as we passed. We waved back. Some ran after us laughing but were eventually lost in the blue smoke of our trike. The town we drove through had seen better times, or maybe it was always this way, one tremor away from losing at Jenga. When we arrived at the ferry terminal, we were in a bit of shock. Where did we go? What did we do next? How do we find the right ferry? We paid our driver, gathered our luggage and looked around. He pointed at a queue and smiled. I love this guy. A very helpful "Special Action Force" commando stared at us blankly—finger on the trigger of his submachine gun—as if to say, "Welcome to our tropical paradise, we hope you enjoy your stay. Enjoy a cocktail and come back soon now, ya hear?" Making our way through the queue, a caravan of luggage in tow, Jenn nudged me and motioned her head towards a wall. Her eyes were wide. Plastered across the wall were twelve, three-foot-tall "Wanted Posters" of some very scary, albeit cliche-looking desperados. Running across the top of all 12 posters in giant type read, "MUERTE GANG. WANTED FOR KIDNAPPING AND MURDER." We scanned the crowd looking for the Muerte Gang. It was hard to tell if we were being watched by the gang or not. That commando we passed had a facial scar just like one of the pictures. Has the Muerte Gang penetrated the "Special Action Force?" I wondered. They could be anywhere. Just waiting to kidnap and murder us, which is how they got their name. Slowly we moved through the queue and towards the ticket booth where we'd buy passage to Boracay. Behind us, a limo arrived. Clean, fresh-looking vacationers smiled at the mayhem—oblivious to the perils of the Muerte Gang—and were shuttled directly onto a large ferry and off to Boracay. One of them, who I'll call Brad, tipped a Mai Thai in my direction as if to say, "Cheers!" We got our tickets and were sent inside to pay a series of "taxes" before being allowed onto our ferry. There was the "Ferry Tax," the "Wildlife Preserve Tax," the "Island Tax," the "Sand Tax," the Sun Tax," the "Water Doesn't Grow On Trees Tax," a "Casino for China Tax," the "Roads won't Build Themselves and Neither Will We Tax," and the ever-important "Send a Kid To Medical School Tax," which will become key to my survival in another story. Several thousands of pesos lighter, we left the building and headed to our ferry, giant suitcases still in tow. There was Brad's limo on a nice big, sea-worthy Ferry. Happy air-conditioned people lined the railings looking down at us as we were herded onto our "Ferry." This ferry was to the ocean as the trike was to the broken streets of Malay; it stayed above the water out of sheer stubbornness. To get onto the ferry, we had to walk across a 12-foot long 2x4 that, for the sake of safety, had two-foot 2x4's nailed across it to make steps randomly every 18 to 23 inches. For additional protection, there were two handrails made of yellow rope. Our responsibility was to carry our luggage onto and off of the ferry, across this super safe bridge. THE FERRY RIDE TO BORACAY Giant orange suitcase on my shoulder I stepped onto the "bridge," glanced back at Jenn and said, "What an adventure." "To Boracay!" Jenn cheered, dragging her suitcase towards the plank.