Coron, Mon Amour

Tagbanua youth guards the entrance to a freshwater lake on Coron Island.

ONLY HALF A CENTURY AGO Palawan remained at the very precipice of the Philippines, the destiny of lepers and hardened criminals. It later became the barrier of containment for the miserable fleeing tyranny in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. What has kept the province on the psychical outer edge of the archipelago, however, has helped make it today the preserve of an irretrievably lost world, a Philippine Shangri-la.

National carrier Philippine Airlines now has a regular flight to Busuanga, the principal northern island of Palawan. Previously, only Seair flew there. Increased demand for quick passage to this formerly remote destination—notably from foreign travelers—has put Busuanga on the commercial flight map.

Busuanga is part of the closely scattered Calamian group of islands. So far its chief attraction to the world outside has been for divers: the 12 Japanese ships sunk by the American Navy in its waters towards the end of World War II. In their ocean-bottom graveyards, the ships are cathartic, hair-raising places to swim through. But the islands—notably Coron, the ancestral domain of the indigenous Tagbanua—have many other attractions as well—paradisiacal and dramatic, once-in-a-lifetime, Bucket List destinations.

Despite the attention it has begun to earn and mentions in the Lonely Planet and Rough Guide, the island has remained largely undeveloped. Unlike Taytay, the jump off point to the more famous resort islands of El Nido and Club Noah in Palawan, the Busuanga airport has a cemented runway. But the road between it and the island’s commercial hub, Coron municipality, is almost enti

rely unpaved. Coron is the name both of this municipality and the idyllic island immediately south—it is rather confusing. The road is a bumpy and long stretch that cuts through the emerald green of cattle grassland, a dry vein in vivid red, the color of the island’s rich earth.

Coron would look like any of the more remote provincial towns, except for a few isolated signs of growing tourism: a dive shop, a painted sign advertising bangka rates and barbecue lunches on pristine beaches, a smattering of young Europeans in board shorts and tank tops.

There is a single ATM in the town, however, and only one gas station with pump

s; fuel is usually funneled from plastic containers through cut-off bleach bottles. There are no Globe or Smart banners. (Their signal is strong, however, and you will remain within contact of Manila, even on the high seas—unless you switch your phone off.)

The small sawali homes on stilts that throng the coastline seem not the slightest bit perturbed or impressed by the arrival of the world at its doorstep. There is no attempt to dress up for company, and a walk through them and over a bridge to get to the popular Seadive Resort is an “authentic” experience of village life, with the usual refuse and odors and the cries of babes offered in candor. It is not dirty, but it is definitely not for the perfumed Aman Pulo set, or even for much of the Boracay set—for now, at any rate—and that is a good thing.

Unspoilt

The two resorts our group was billeted at, Darayanon and Seadive, are at the top of available comfort, and they are very basic, clean and air-conditioned but far from luxurious. We took all our meals at Seadive which has the advantage of being directly over the water and open to a magnificent view. The food is also excellent, although items on the menu would go missing as the trail of a storm made shipments intermittent. “Mabuti nalang mabait kayo,” Metro Society’s Glenna Aquino told the restaurant’s staff, “otherwise hindi na nakakatuwa.” The people of Coron remain unaltered by the influx of tourists. They are earnestly friendly and treat you as their equal. “May bago ba tayo?” asked one of the Seadive waitresses when she caught me using the bar sink to wash my hands. “’To,” she addressed me with the Ilonggo appellation and referred to the pile of used glasses, “hugasan mo lahat yan ha?”

From Coron town, we took a large bangka to Coron Island, approximately half an hour away. As we approach, the limestone that makes the Palawan seascape so distinctive begins to loom higher and higher. The pumpboat slows as we enter into a voluptuously green lagoon, the limestone cliffs embracing it like outstretched arms. There is a narrow wood quay buil

t into the rock, at its end a hut where Tagbanua volunteers keep watch. President Fidel Ramos decreed the island the dominion of this native group. They charge P200 per visitor to Cayangan Lake, just over a dip in the limestone wall that faces the sea. A crude wood staircase and banisters have been built into the craggy rock to make the climb easier, but it is not for the infirm or the lazy.

If you have any feeling, how can you resist jumping in?

As we slowly make the difficult descent into the interior, the lake comes into view. It is breathtaking—vast and completely enclosed by towering limestone walls. There is nobody but us, and it feels as if we’ve stumbled into the Jurassic age, intact since the dawn of its time.

The lake is deep and placid and transparent. If you have any feeling, how can you resist plunging in? The water is a little salty. It is not warm. It is not cold. It is perfect. From the pers
pective of a swimmer, it is gigantic. It goes on past a bend in the limestone and without flippers or a floating device it is difficult to get past a point from which you can see its furthest edge.

Barracuda Lake is another bangka ride away. The trek to it is shorter but more precarious as there are only banisters to assist your climb and though there are footholds in the limestone it is craggy and sharp. We were told the lake is named after a pair of barracuda that was spotted there years ago but who have never made a reappearance since. Unlike Cayangan which has only tiny fish in it, this lake has larger species and it is not salty at all. While the former lake has decking where you can hang out, you can only perch on the craggy rocks at this lake if you don’t dive in. It is irresistible. The water is dusted with violet flowers from the trees that tower overhead and fragrant white palm buds that perfume the surface of the water.

Our Tagbanua guides said there are far more pristine freshwater lakes from which you can take a drink further away but they are difficult to reach and not open to the public.

Hot water

An attraction in Busuanga are the unique Maquinit Hot Springs. They lie at the foot of a rock formation and face the sea; to one side is lush mangrove. Unlike most hot springs, these are saltwater. Lia Ramos, née Salas-Jovellanos, on whose family’s property the springs lie says the government authority Philvolcs studied the springs and are unable to explain the heat or even locate their reservoir. Lia returned from over two decades in Spain to manage the family property, which was acquired in exchange for Culion Island, the family’s former domain, when the American colonists decided to turn the latter into a leper colony. The springs discharge 5,115 liters per minute. The flow is rapid and spills over the pools’ edges and flows into the sea. The temperature of the water ranges from 38 to 41°C, too cool to be used for geothermal purposes but warm enough to instantly dissipate the muscular pain from a steep climb. When you stick your toe in it feels alarmingly hot—you must wade in slowly into that lush, voluptuous heat. The pools walls are lined with a bright green algae which Lia’s family had tested by algae experts at the University of the Philippines in Los Baños. It was found to have the “miracle” nutrient popularly known as spirulina.

Despite leprosy having been completely eradicated, the name Culion still evokes fear. About an hour’s bangka ride away from Busuanga, the island has a rustic, sleepy charm. Electricity only comes on for 12 hours a day, from noon till midnight. The stores have antique glass cabinetry and showcases which were probably brand new when they were first brought to the island. Doorways are decorated with the exotic forest orchids that can only be found in Palawan. From the dock, the road swirls up to the hill, where the beautiful church La Immaculada, erected in 1933, commands a majestic view of the limpid sea.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to the church, we struck up a conversation with Marcelina Manatad, a teacher at the local college. She told us that the leper colony was founded in 1906 and closed in 1904. People without the disease continued to live on the island, but the lepers were sealed off by a permanently locked gate. We learned from her that leprosy is less contagious than TB and that it is curable, although a little less than a hundred lepers remain on the island, those who had no family elsewhere and who had reached an advanced stage in the disease before it was arrested. They mix freely with the rest of the people. “I myself am the daughter of lepers,” she said.

Under the sprawling canopy of an ancient acacia tree stands the gate of the Culion Sanitarium and Medical Center, where research and treatments were conducted and administered on those afflicted with the disease. One of the buildings is a museum which thoughtfully presents the history, memorabilia and artifacts of the place when it was a leper colony. An eloquent, unsentimental video of the colony’s history details the tragedy of the men, women and children banished to this island with a primordial horror that clings to this day, and the eventual triumph against the disease and its stigma by the selfless and the visionary, and the transition of the colony into Culion Municipality. It reduced me to tears.

Beginning and end

Off white-sand Banol beach back in Coron Island lies the Japanese shipwreck in the shallowest water. It is visible from above the water, and clearer still with a mask and snorkel. Shafts of sunlight illuminate the coral encrusted hull of the ship, the rest of it disappearing into the profoundly quiet, ever deepening blue.

The juxtaposition between the primeval and the horrors of human folly are what make Busuanga an extraordinary destination. You are at once at the beginning of time and its butt end.

In yet another part off Coron lies Twin Lagoon. The bangka anchors in a deep lagoon; you plunge into the water and through a hole in the limestone swim into another lagoon, completely walled in by towering rock walls. Photographer Mike Sandro Rieta who has been here several times says that on occasion there will be birds’ nest gatherers at the top of the cliff, and they will wave to you from on high, each of you to the other almost only a speck.

Although the water is completely transparent, it is pitch black because of the depth of the ocean floor. When you stretch your feet downwards, the water becomes—alarmingly—warm like the Maquinit springs. It takes some faith remaining here; it feels like at any moment, some survivor of the dinosaur age will grab you from underneath. This is fantasy of course, but it is prompted by the setting which seems to have survived unchanged since the plants began to grow on these rocks, when sea and lake, hot and cold were just beginning to part ways.