Monday, June 27, Culion Island
Stomach troubles were bound to happen. It might have been the barbecue isaw (chicken intestines) from the other day. Or the rich, fatty diet we are not used to. Or that most comfort rooms (restrooms) in our travels of the past week don’t have toilet paper and soap (you have to bring your own everywhere). But at bedtime tonight, all of us except for Sierra were sick. But tonight, all of us except for Sierra were sick. At least it didn’t happen until bedtime.
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Hours earlier…
But I am here, and I am happy. I feel like I know Culion, at least Culion as it used to be. I recognize landmarks, what the historical markers mean, but today’s Culion is nothing like the days when it was designated a leper colony. From the early 1900s to the 1950s, many patients lived in huts on forested hillsides. They still conduct research on the disease, but the island was declared leprosy-free in 1996.
Today, the streets are still steep and winding, harkening back to the days when the patients lived in the lower area apart from the hospital staff, but they are paved and the modest houses are made of modern materials. About halfway through town, the Balala gateway still stands, but without a gate. In the colony days, a sentry barred patient entry and hospital staff soaked their shoes in disinfectant before proceeding home.
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We arrived in the middle of the afternoon. The main dock is crumbling and everything is wet and rather dirty, but there is dignity in the posture of the waiting persons at the dock. This town is quiet, a throwback to another time. Nothing like its lively cousin Coron.
Our guide, Elee Mar Bulotano, is in his element here. He is descended from Cebuano patients who made this island their home. This is his hometown, and he is proud of it. It shows in the briskness of his step, his enthusiasm in explaining what Hotel Maya, our lodging, used to be – a dormitory. Of course, Elee is always enthusiastic, regardless of circumstances; Culion is lucky to have him for an ambassador.
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We climb a steep flight of rock steps cut into the cliff face to get to our hotel, Hotel Maya. My knees protest, each step is cut rather high for my short legs, but I push on. Right when we enter the hotel, through the restaurant which has chairs shrouded in elegant white linen, our efforts are rewarded by the friendly staff with cold drinks of grenadine and orange juice.
Elee takes us shortly after on a historical walking tour. Except it is raining, so we take a trike down to the plaza, where dignitaries stood for pictures on the grand staircase. Next stop is the Sandoval house, still with its traditional kapiz shell windows, many popped out in places but at least the house is still there, rooms being let to boarders. I don’t recognize the Sandoval name, but I will have to research it sometime, our connection to the owner. I believe through the Romasantas, my grandmother’s mother’s line, we are related.
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We stop at the museum, which I have visited once before, in 2007. The photos chronicling leprosy and its ravages are sad, and yet hopeful with medical progress over the years. The disease imprisoned lepers here, but they also could finally call somewhere home that wouldn’t turn them away or revile them.
Upstairs, I contemplate the Balala nursery replica, which many years ago sparked my interest in writing my novel Blemish, set in Culion. Through a glass window on visiting day, leper mothers could watch their children grow up. The practice then was to take away the babies immediately from their mothers then eventually send them to an orphanage in Manila.
My novel is the reason why I was so keen on including Culion on our itinerary on this trip once again, so I could actually experience an overnight stay on the island. But as I watch my children’s subdued expressions as they toured the museum and we discuss the experience as a family, I realize there is that added blessing.
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Still in the rain, we make our stop at the church. But we have umbrellas (one loaned by the hotel, one with Elee and one Sierra had said, with a glint of knowing, “we will need it,” and we certainly have). The church is beautiful. We were told that the ceiling was painted in recent years by a man who has no hands. There are no candles in the black metal holders, where the faithful can light one for a special intention, but the mere sight of it makes me feel at home, of the times when I used to go to church as a little girl, and we would light candles. The confessional is a private box for the priest, and, to my surprise, just a pew for the penitent.
Hotel Maya is just next door to the church, which was a welcome stop, as Sabrina’s strength was flagging. They are very gracious, the hotel Maya staff. The hallway walls are made of traditional materials of bamboo and stained wood. This used to be the ladies’ dormitory, and I wonder how true this is to the original. Our family room on the second floor is labeled “Anghelitos”. As described online, there are five beds – a welcome space for each of us, sticky and hot as we are. Sabrina is hit hardest by some sort of bug, she crawls in bed, under the covers, and is asleep soon after. Drew doesn’t feel like going out, so the rest of us go, with the charge to bring back mangoes and Sprite.
= = =
We could take a trike, but we walk down the steep street instead, narrow and busy with tricycles. We pass small houses built into the edge of the cliff, and I glimpse stilts and gardens, before it drops off into another cliff, or maybe the sea, I can’t tell.
We stop at a little tindahan. Sierra is in love with Filipino clothes. She buys a shirt with flowers against a light green background. The cut is Filipino, which means it is flattering on the petite person. Someone is selling fish balls and kikiam (squid fried in batter). I like the sound that the metal spatula makes against the wok, as the seller fries the fish balls in hot oil. We buy four kikiam and three fish balls, with a “sweet” sauce.
In a little bit, we reach the palengke. It is late, past 5, and produce have been picked over. Many stalls are closed, but some are still going strong. We buy mangoes before they close, apples and oranges, too. For dinner, we try a restaurant, Aljohn’s, but Wesley and I are feeling queasy by now. Nothing seems appetizing. Things that involve rice and a sauce, anyway. We don’t want anything heavy. At Wherzell’s, we order a take-out of halo-halo (shaved ice with beans, fruit and milk) and Sprite, and Wesley gets spaghetti, too.
As we try to flag down a tricycle, Wesley feels so sick, he has to sit on the road, and I tell him to tuck his long legs so that the tricycles don’t clip him. Finally, a trike without passengers comes along.
The hotel is a welcome sight. We climb the steps and eagerly go our room. Sabrina is fast asleep and Drew is taking it easy reading a book. My bed – all to myself – feels good. I eat some of the halo-halo but the corn they’d added in it feels a little weird, so I don’t finish it.
It’s still pretty early, so I write in my journal, then attempt to access the Internet downstairs on a slow connection. On the coffee table is a tattered book on Culion that I wish I could own, but the hotel doesn’t sell it. I am so absorbed in the book, I don’t notice the time until the employees urge me to just bring it and this portable wifi hotspot gadget to our room. I think they are ready to turn in for the night.
So I do. I read and enjoy the essays in the book. It transports me once again to old Culion. I am already recognizing mistakes in my manuscript that I have to fix. But not tonight.
I close the book and my eyes, not even bothering to change into jammies. As I drift to sleep, images from the museum and the book reel through my head like a dream.
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