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.