A speck of sun in the island of B.
Barberis, Fallourd, Breyre, Barry. Whatever else might be said of the island of B., overwhelmed by commercialization and tourism development, there still peeks a speck of sun to warm the belated visitor on the stretch of white sand beach that can only be seen to be believed.
On Station 2 right beside D’Mall we stayed, in Sun Village Central with its eat-all-you-can Mongolian buffet, on that same stretch which at nightfall turns into a hive of al fresco folkhouses, ihaw-ihaws, sing-alongs, drinking contests, company outings, begging Aetas, hustlers selling souvenirs and services like island hopping, jet ski, and banana boats in perhaps the world’s greatest seaside beer garden.
Such as on the day after Thursday’s snorkeling incident that had the middle toe scraping into a coral, causing profuse miniature bleeding that might have alarmed the fishes, there alighted in front of Sun Village a delegation of touch rugby players with strange-sounding foreign names that befit the league of Azkals, Volcanoes, there in all their sexy glory in white sand buff were Barberis, Fallourd, Breyre, Barry, not in any manner chopped liver.
To get to the island of B. you first pass through Hong Kong, rather first pass up on a couple of tickets to Hong Kong won in a Christmas raffle and instead trade them in for double that to a local destination, even Bajo de Masinloc, but in this case a different, whiter shade of B.
“Don’t you want to be like Mon Tulfo?”
I remember the national artist NJ asking me this, when wondering if I hadn’t considered writing for the Inquirer. Tulfo was beaten up in the Manila airport after running into some toughies who had just arrived from the island of B., where some of their luggage had been left, causing their frustration and ranting and venting it out on poor Tulfo, who just happened to be handy with a camera and took pictures of their losing it.
Still, on the three nights and four days the whole brood was there, there was no such incident, neither before or after in the airports and terminals of disembarking and boarding, though we noticed rather the brisk collection of fees such as terminal fee, environmental fee, etc. upon arriving, and another slew of fees upon departure, making it more than double that collected in Manila, which could almost cause a free for all like the one sparked by offloaded luggage in the island of B. With all those fees, a fellow traveler remarked why couldn’t the local government do away with all the ad placements in otherwise rustic sailboats and tarpaulins, put in a bit of air-conditioning in the terminals and maybe fix the x-ray machine with all the revenue from flavored condoms, cellphone networks, junk food, everything more fun even the experience of snapping back your false teeth.
But those are mere quibbles, mind you; what matters after getting over the wet dreams of the touch rugby players is the family bonding time, yes the island of B. is also for family, it’s more fun for the fantastic four. In a speck of sun many stories can be told, such as one about the fast-melting gelato, or the great drum beats past midnight beside Sun Village resembling the rhythms of Oye Como Va, the perpetually postponed trips to the Manana Mexican restaurant, the sweetish steaming fish tinola at D’Talipapa, the rainbow colors of fishes swimming in and out of corals during the island hop, the view of the Pacquiao seaside mansion jutting into the rocks of the pier as if Flintstone-inspired, the fire dancers, the bachoy, the long walks by the shore, the complex sandcastles constructed by a disabled local resident, the crocodile souvenirs that could be had for an arm and a leg, the touch rugby players Barberis, Fallourd, Breyre, Barry…
Oh yes, the pasalubong, the key chains and assorted biscuits could hold secret codes and messages about life in the island of B. The paborita a round cracker the size of a peso coin which is best cracked between the teeth; the ugoy-ugoy a small rectangular sugar-flaked biscuit that is best cracked between the teeth; the jacobina a cute square cracker that is best cracked between the teeth, if you have any left after consuming all those bags of biscuits.
The key chain designs are a motley lot, and rather predictable though no less potential conversation pieces or food for thought: starfish, sun, sailboat, sandal, saw. And the T-shirts, not to forget them either: the gecko, the startling fishes, the its more fun in B. without the apostrophe.
There are tales and conjectures about the missing apostrophe in the slogan, such as if you so much as dare wear a T-shirt with a typo it could suggest that you’re missing some tail.
On the island of B., it’s not unusual to come across a Caucasian passed out on the beach still clutching a bottle of beer. And the Koreans, their Koreanovela language seems to have a run of the place, a Malate outfitted with white sand and sea.
There’s a speck of sun peeking out of the bikinis of Barberis, Fallourd, Breyre, Barry.
