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Tuesday March 31, 1998. Coron, Palawan, Philippines.

Carmelita and I took the MBRS Lines MV Salve Juliana ferry from Manila to Coron. We had planned to go to Coron to check the room we had been renting there and all Carmelita's stuff she had stored inside. On Sunday, the day before we departed, Carmelita went to the shipping line ticket office. She returned looking frustrated. "Did you get the tickets?" I asked. "Ha no. The ticket line was very long. I can not. I don't want to wait." "Well, if there was a long line, that probably means there are lots of people who want to take the boat tomorrow. You should have waited." "The line was very long. My friend tell me we can buy a ticket on the boat."

Great. Filipinos tell you what you want to hear. Soften the truth with a lie... I knew then it was going to be a struggle to get a berth on the boat. But it was already late and there was no time to go back. We would have to take whatever we got.

We arrived at pier eight at one o'clock Monday afternoon, an hour before the boat was to leave. There was a huge crowd milling about on the pier. Carmelita talked to a few friends. "She said school is on vacation now. Many students going back to Coron. The boat is fully booked."

And it was. Every square inch of deck was occupied by human flesh. I grabbed our bags and told Carmelita to wait; I would drop off the unimportant stuff (boxes of clothes and other inexpensive-looking items) and come back for the rest.

"John, we get a boy to help. It will be cheap. Only one boy."

I hate the "Porter Mafia." I had been subjected to them before. They are a close-knit bunch. They descend on you in swarms, like flies. Or vultures. They don't allow outsiders to help people take their belongings on board any ship. They charge exorbitant fees. Especially if you are a White Guy. I argued with Carmelita. I begged. I pleaded. I tried logic. Nothing worked. Finally, out of frustration, I gave in.

"OK, one porter. But set a price before he touches our stuff." Carmelita nodded. She grabbed a porter from the circling swarm and exchanged a few words in Tagalog. The porter grabbed our stuff, threw it on a cart and we headed for the boat.

We helped the porter carry our belongings on to the boat. He made two trips, carrying one suitcase and another carrying a box. On the second trip I followed him through the surging mass of humanity that was simultaneously loading cargo and passengers on the boat. When we got settled on the boat, I saw Carmelita hand him a wad of cash. "How much did you give him?" "One hundred fifty pesos." She said. That's about four dollars. One hundred fifty pesos is an average days wages in Manila—and about ten times what was a fair to pay. "Are you crazy? He only carried two bags!" I shouted at Carmelita. "Didn't you ask how much first?" "No...."

I had expected to get gouged by the Porter Mafia. I figured fifty pesos was an upper limit on any unreasonable demand. I had assumed that Carmelita had followed my instructions and set a price before hand. I assumed she had an idea of what was reasonable (she has run several businesses before, she knows what reasonable salaries were). Unfortunately, I had assumed.

I grabbed the wad of cash from the surprised porter. I peeled off fifty pesos and handed it to him. He looked startled. A loud shouting match ensued. I hate being taken advantage of because I am a White Guy. I also hate making a scene. But it was I who had broken the rules of the game. I had not set fixed a price beforehand and that left me pretty much at his mercy for setting a price. People starred. Carmelita fussed and stamped her feet. I was boxed in. We settled on 100 pesos. I was screwed before we started.

I hate the Porter Mafia.

We dropped our belongings in the Deluxe Class cabin. Deluxe is an overstatement. The "Deluxe" accommodations are about a hundred small bunks with thin foam mattresses squashed into a forty-by-forty foot space on the second deck. It is deluxe only by comparison: it has reserved space, air-con and a small passenger lounge with a dozen tables that servers beer, soft drinks and greasy meals. It is Deluxe Class (P520, about US$13.00) only because it is a big step up from Economy Class (P350, US$8.75). Economy Class has about twice as many un-mattressed bunks, stacks of cheap vinyl cots you can set up anywhere you can find deck space and the only amenity is a small store sells chips, crackers, soda, beer and noodles-in-a-cup. To make matters worse, as many Economy Class tickets are sold as there are people who will buy them. That means people sleeping two or three people to a bunk, and the rest find space anywhere they can: on top of sacks of rice in the cargo hold, on the floor, anywhere.

Since we had no reserved space tickets we should have been relegated to Economy Class. But Filipinos have a deferential respect for anything imported, even people. Filipinos generally do not expected foreigners to endure the same conditions that Filipinos will. After nearly a year living here I am still not sure if it is because of their inherent generosity or a deeply ingrained cultural insecurity, a feeling that they are second-rate. I think it's a bit of both. We plopped our stuff down next to one of the booths provided for the Deluxe Class passenger's relaxation and enjoyment and camped out there.

The cruise back to Coron is always an event for Carmelita. It's her chance to "make yak-yak" with friends and catch up on the local "chismis" (gossip). So while Carmelita wandered off and made yak-yak, I made friends with a couple English-speaking divers from Germany and Sweden. We proceeded to drink San Miguel beers and tell tall tales until we passed out around midnight.

Sleeping on the Salve Juliana was tortuous at best. I slept, precariously balanced, on a three-foot-by-one-foot padded bench, stretching my legs across to my camera case for support. Carmelita curled up on the table. The boat pitched and rolled in the high seas kicked up by strong winds. I was awoken a dozen times by Carmelita letting out a wail when we hit a big wave. It was miserable.

We awoke before sunrise. It's hard to sleep late in a room of a hundred early risers. And the sleeping accommodations didn't exactly tempt one back to dreamland. The sky was bands of gold, red and purple over a deep, steel-blue sea. I shared aspirin and mineral water with my new-found friends. We docked in Coron just before 7:00. A host of local fishermen and their families descended on the boat. People threw coins in the sea as the children dove for them. This was new. When I arrived a few month earlier, nobody was doing that.

One of the local Coron Porter Mafia asked if I needed a hand carrying the luggage. "How much?" I asked, having learned my lesson just hours before. Negotiate price up front. Don't delegate this important duty. "Twenty sir." "Ten pesos, OK?" "Sige!" We marched off the boat and hired a tricycle ("Carmelita, ask him how much first!") to take us to our room.

We returned to Krystal Langit Lodging house, our home in Coron. We were starved; Carmelita asked Mommy (that's what everybody calls Cely Langit, the wife of the owner) to whip us up a P100 lunch. Mommy out did herself. She serves us huge plates of fried liver, beefsteak Tagalog, pancit canton, and rice. It was delicious.

We cleaned out the dust in our room, talked with our friends, then fell asleep for the rest of the day.

[Next: Island Hopping Around Coron]