I'm Living In a Children's Book

I have a class of six boys between the ages of eight and nine. They are the result of two classes combining together. Three of the original four kids get along well. The fourth boy is very, very odd and really has to work through some emotional issues (case and point, he’s severely addicted to Uno and has a mental breakdown if he cannot play it)—I think parents telling him “no,” would probably be a good start. Anyway, no one likes this child--except our boss. The second class was made up of two eight year olds, one boy is good-natured and determined, while the other kid is from one of those families—everyone groans when you talk about one of the three brothers. This last boy is toxic in a class of more than two.

I really wanted to do something fun with this class and most students like “running dictation.” In this version, I have written a numbered list of vocabulary words, I call two names and a number. The two students run to the back of the room where the list is, find the number, race to the front and write the word associated with the number. In a normal game, I’d make the team to do a Chinese whispers sort of relay, but since they aren’t exactly team oriented, I decided to skip that part of teamwork and just break them into groups for points. To make it “fair,” I wrote down team names on a paper and made the children blindly choose their teams—I wasn’t monitoring well, thinking probability would be in my favor—and the three best students, who like each other, got on the same team. That left the good natured kid with the emotionally disturbed boys. While Cooper and Bobby scowled at each other, Ted threw his hands in the air and went “Yeah! Fighting Team B!”

Ted volunteers to be first against Tyson. I call out the number, they run to the list and dash to the whiteboard. They are writing when Ted glances over to check his opponent’s progress. Tyson drops his marker and starts screaming, “Hacking! Hacking!” As far as I can figure out, this is Konglish for looking/cheating. Nothing I do calms him down while Ted just stands there with his spaced out smile and shrugs his shoulders, now teammates are fighting. Get that broken up and move on to Bobby and Dustin.

They run to the board, Bobby forgets how to write a U –the vowel we’ve been studying for two weeks. He starts to glance over, but Watch Dog Tyson calls him out. Bobby ignores my prompting, goes limp and drops the marker and scuttles back to his chair where he does his weird limp, blank stare and cries a bit. He is unresponsive to any comfort and the students are starting to poke fun, so to divert their attention I call on Cooper and Curtis. Number one down.

I call a number, Cooper runs to the board and realizes he doesn’t know the word and runs back, by this time, Curtis knows the word and is starting to write, Cooper takes one look at Curtis. Where Bobby goes limp and invisible, Cooper gets animated. Red gathers at his neck and creeps up his face, his already big head balloons out and his eyes turn black and jump  from his face, his fists ball up and he crushes whatever is in his hand. He screams “No!” I’m afraid he’ll billy goat Curtis, but instead sits down in a pout, breathing heavily.  Number two down.

Ted wants to go again, despite seeing his two teammates bite the dust. I call out the number over Cooper’s hyperventilating, the boys race to the front. Tyson finishes first. Ted stops mid word, gives a blank smile and a shrug and sits down. Man three down. I’ve made a huge mistake. However, looking at Cooper’s cartoonish face, Bobby’s corpse-like appearance, Ted’s blank smile and shrugging shoulders, and Curtis’s slightly evil glare over the retainer protruding cheeks, I can’t help but laugh. I have to take longer than necessary erasing the three letters off of the board.

Cebu: The Best Worst Vacation (Part Two)

Matt's photo of us at the beach at the resort!

Once on Mactan, wander around to several hotels (even the ones owned by Koreans and Japanese, which the locals warned us against), and with the help of locals and tourist police, find a room that fits our budget at Boyla Diving Resort. We chose the cheapest and least moldy room with a view over an abandoned pool for thirty-five dollars. Perhaps it was mostly destroyed in a typhoon or earthquake, but the “indoor pool” was just a tiled floor; the furniture in the lobby was ancient. Tried to use the TV, to find that it only served as a prop. Also, breakfast wasn’t included. The faucet in the plastic sink leaked all over the newly tiled bathroom.

We explore the “beach” in front of the hotel (really just garbage and rocks). This is where we learn that Mactan Island is originally a coral island, making it great for diving, but not for swimming. All of the so called “famous beaches” are really man-made for hotel use only. We were inundated by locals trying to sell us island hopping tours as we tried to find a spot to swim, looking a bit further down the “beach,” we see a blue infinity pool…I wanted to cry.

Matt suggests we go back to the hotels and see if we can use their beach for a fee. We walk back to the main road, all the while hearing shouts “Where you going?” “Tricycle?” “Sir, Mam, how about island hopping?” “Sir, food? How about Maribago Grill?” Only “yes” is an acceptable answer, to which we wouldn’t give, so they followed after us until there was another innocent tourist to irritate or we turned onto a hotel drive.

After several inquiries, and suggested prices of $100 each per day for a crowded dirty pool and a tiny beach packed with locals selling tours, we settle on the local five dollar beach, with dirty water and sand and the same three guys coming up to us every fifteen minutes to ask about island hopping or jet skiis.

On the way to our hotels.

We march determinately back towards Boyla, over the potholed mud road between goats and dogs, trying to avoid wading through puddles. We walk past the “dressing room,” the only remnants of a building, beyond Boyla, and around the corner. We quickly come to a high cement wall with some wooden doors advertising “Nordtropic Resort,” knocking on the door, a guard lets us in. We enquire about rooms, fully booked, but one room, which costs two hundred dollars a night, cash. Seeing what little hope we had in our eyes vanish, the manager offers a fifty percent discount, as long as we don’t use the kitchen or the extra bedroom. We agree, deciding that if nothing else, we’d have a decent hotel room for New Year’s Eve.

Back at Boyla, the electricity in the entire neighborhood goes out. We feel our way down the stairs to the lobby, where the emergency lights aren’t working and the maid has to give us candles from Santo Nino’s shrine. We sit outside for a bit while locals again try to sell us tours. Finally the power comes back on. We give up and go to bed over the sound of a generator being used somewhere next door.

Wake up at six in the morning to the deafening sound of roosters. So many roosters!  Cockfights seem to be a major source of entertainment for the locals and their roosters are big and mean. Still, you feel a bit sorry for them tied up in the lawn with only a six inch tether.

Check in early at the new hotel and jump into the pool. It is clear that this hotel is owned by a western, because of the little things (like light switches being where you’d expect). Eat dinner at the hotel restaurant, loving vegetables. I can never get over how fruit and vegetables are not so easily accessible in the tropics. Enjoy the dance music over the loud speaker, eat cake and a traditional Filipino dessert, Biko (a yummy brown sticky blob of rice, sugar, coconut, and mango) that the hotel gave us. At midnight, go up to the roof to watch the fireworks show. All of the papers and news stations had many stories warning against lighting your own fireworks, complete with gory pictures, but this didn’t seem to deter the locals. In fact, some of the fireworks nearly missed us, and hot ash landed on our clothes.

New Year’s was such a relief with nice people, a clean hotel, and a lovely pool. Even the sky turned blue after we had been in the hotel for a few hours! We decided to save the holiday and stay at the resort. The next few days are happily filled with swimming in the pool.

We attempted a couple of trips to the hotel beach, but being new, the sand kept washing away and the water was dirty. Matt and I rescued a starfish, who a year previous could have latched onto the coral rocks, but now gets washed up on the cement sandbar. This along with the large amounts of tourists I saw bringing back starfish and large sea shells back from island hopping makes me question how environmentally sound all of this resort tourism is.

Being a Korean resort town, Maribago has very little to offer in the way of food. You can either eat at the expensive resort cafes or at the expensive Korean-style hot pot and seafood restaurants. Other than Maribago Grill, which is a terrible place if you have food allergies because they sneak chicken in your dish and call it pork, there isn’t much for “normal” food. As a result, we had to walk a few kilometers to McDonalds (we would have happily eaten at the resort, but we felt like we needed to get out of our own world once in a while). We didn’t make it, made it as far as a jeepney stop—a palm and metal pipe shack filled with goats and pregnant ladies, and decided to turn back to town. The next day we succeeded in getting to McDonald’s via jeepney.

A typical local store

It quickly becomes clear why locals hate Koreans. Not only do Koreans only stay at Korean resorts, ride in Korean buses with Korean tour guides, and eat at Korean restaurants, there are several Korean grocery stores stocked with Korean detergents, chopsticks, water and cola brands, things than can easily be purchased everywhere in the world at cheaper locally-made prices.  This means, Koreans rarely put any money into the local economy—except help paying a few salaries—which seems to go more towards Cebu City since some of the resort workers find it cheaper to commute back and forth to Cebu City than rent a room on Mactan.

Check out on Sunday, and head north to the Lapu-Lapu and Magellan Shrines. Again, locals follow us around trying to get our business… they are willing to follow you kilometers out of their way. After the shrine, get mistaken for wealthy tourists and get shown new condos for investment—well worth the clean bathroom (but where is the toilet paper in such a posh place!?!). Then head to the airport, where the relief we had felt after checking in to Nordtropic vanished and we find out that we have to pay a thirty dollar terminal fee to exit—which means scrambling for a cash machine at the last minute. 

Cebu: The Best Worst Vacation (Part One)

Everything was going smoothly, until we got on the plane. It was an Airbus 320, so even my knees touched the back of the seat, Matt and I were practically on top of each other. Since we were flying from Korea, this meant that the other passengers immediately filled up the overhead compartments, leaned their seats back, and kids incessantly kicked my seat. Flight attendants took several minutes to get all of the phones off and the seats upright. Find out that no snack, food, or drink is provided for the four hour flight. An eight ounce bottle of water costs two dollars on this not-so-cheap airline. Sleeping was next to impossible.

Arrive in Cebu at four in the morning. None of the Koreans have filled out an arrivals card, and stand in confusion as the passport control shouts over the crowds telling them to fill out the card. Once out of immigration, duck into a tiny bathroom and attempt to change clothes, instead just take a layer of shirts because the bathroom is covered in pee and the smell is nauseating. Luckily an exchange is open, since no bank outside of Seoul exchanges Pesos. There is no tourist information desk and I remember why it would be nice to have a smart phone.

Once outside the airport, an attendant repeats “Merry Christmas, Happy New Year” over and over, hinting for a tip, while we wait for a taxi. Decide to tough out an all-nighter, and go to Basilica Minore del Santo Nino in Cebu City, which, to our surprise is completely packed for a five AM service, held outside because the 2013 earthquake nearly destroyed the church.

Nothing is open but Jollibee (Filipino fast food). Find ourselves on Colon Street, the oldest and shortest national road in the Philippines, where there is a 7-Eleven. Wander a bit more, past all the children sleeping and begging in the street (once even a baby was left alone in a stroller), to find the few tourist spots are closed until eight. Find a table in crowded Jollibee and eat our breakfast surrounded by church families and smiling prostitutes. It is clear we were no longer in college and all-nighters are now impossible. Haunt the hotel, waiting for a room, dozing off on their porch while chatting with a local, who was complete genetic evidence of Spanish presence. 

Finally allowed to check in, charged an extra night, even though it is nine-thirty, and sleep until the afternoon. Walk the one kilometer to the main bit of town. I imagined having to swim to my hotel on vacation, however, I was not expecting having to balance on a handrail to avoid a lake of sewage on my way to the hotel. Walk along various paved roads, canals are full of garbage, people pee on the street in broad daylight, women scream at their children (who are dressed in only adult t-shirts) for dropping a five pesos coin, people pull water from a well on a corner, and it isn’t clear if that is clean water or the dirty canal water. Eventually end up at Fort San Pedro, only slightly damp from rain.

Managed to do all touristy things on Sunday. The fort was a slight adventure, having to watch our step because of rotting floor boards and crumbling walls. Marveled a bit at the glass encased 19^th Century Spanish flag, unidentifiable because of white mold. Magellan’s cross was not as interesting as I had anticipated. Ducked into McDonald’s to avoid the many hawkers and beggars. Hang around down town long enough to catch dinner at a BBQ place.

Wake up in the morning to a torrential downpour. It had typhoon written all over it, despite my checking the weather reports before leaving Korea. Ferries were suspended and panic began to rise among tourists. I really wanted to get to Bohol for our New Year’s Eve. Braved the water and headed to the Department of Tourism, a government office that is the closest thing to tourist information in the country. They warn us that we may not get to Bohol. Spend the entire day moping in a “mall” and then in our hotel with terrible TV reception.

The next morning dawns bright, sunny, and hot. With high hopes, wake up early, run down to the lobby for ferry news. An Australian is convinced that I’m Dutch because of my accent. No ferry news, so wait a bit before heading down to the pier only to find lines hundreds of people deep to refund their ferry tickets. No ferries until January second! Totally depressed with the idea of having to stay in Cebu City, we head to the tourism office, to find it is clos

ed for the holidays. We resolved that we’d head south to a few known beaches on the island and went to the tourist police to figure out where the bus station was. Walk into a tourist police convention—the room is packed. All seem to agree that heading to Maolboal is as far south as we can get because the typhoon washed bridges out, but I remembered trying to book for Maoboal online and all of the hotels were booked.

One officer suggests just going to Mactan, where all of the resorts were; there we’d get a nice beach holiday at some of the “most famous beaches.” Armed with directions on taking a Jeepney, ask several of the numbered jeepneys if they go to “Park Mall,” a big Jeepney terminal on the way to Mactan. The money taker says yes, the passengers say no, after we crawl over everyone of course. Crawl back over everyone and nearly step on a chicken, which clucks in annoyance. Give up and take a taxi, the driver gives us a tour of the various malls and resorts telling us not to go to certain places because they are owned by Koreans and Japanese.