Island Philosophies

It simply breaks my heart to think that I have to leave this beautiful island soon. As much as I try to create reasons for another extension, a part of me has begun to accept that, this time, I have to go back.

I guess the main reason why I fell so hard for this island is that everything here is just different from the life I temporarily left behind. The men are different, the view is more vivid and peaceful, the air is lighter, the ground softer, and the waters so clear.

For more than three months now, I’ve immersed myself in a way of life so simple that it touches and inspires my soul to grow.

Before I say goodbye to the island and the few good friends who’ve changed my life somehow, let me just document a few of the island philosophies I’ve learned and know that I’ll carry with me home.

Live One Day at a Time

Like life, the island weather is unpredictable – it could be sizzling hot one moment, then pouring rain the next. Here, I’ve experienced wind so strong it could blow you over if you don’t know how to stand firm. Yet there are minutes or days too when the air is so clear that the sun rays find it easy to pierce through your skin, making you wish you were a man so you could easily go shirtless.

At first, I found it frustrating. Plans could change any moment according to the mood of the day. But as time went by, I’ve began to accept that there are just some things you have no control over. Like the rest of the island people, I’ve learned to just go with the flow. Rain or shine, you learn to plan for both. The day goes on.

And the longer I stayed, the more I reveled in the fact that nothing stays the same.

Every sunset is different. The tide always changes. The sun gives way to the moon. Rain happens so the world can glisten when the sun is out.

Here, I’ve learned to live one moment or a day at a time for who knows really what’s in store tomorrow?

Nothing Lasts Forever

On the island, people come and go. There’s always a new face to see, a new friend to make, a new name to remember practically every day. And while you enrich each others’ lives for the moment, you know that – like you – every one leaves eventually too. It’s just a matter of time.

In fact, in all the time I’ve been here, I’ve never met anyone who’s actually lived on the island all his life. People are always from somewhere – the mainland, Kalibo, Iloilo, Manila, Cebu, Korea, Europe, America, Japan, Israel, and wherever else.

All the friends I’ve come to know here have given up a life somewhere. Some came here to work. Some stayed because they don’t really know what to do next or where to go after. But most people, I’ve learned, settled here to forget.

Each story you hear has a recurring theme – nothing lasts forever, nothing stays the same. Not love. Not pain. Love evolves. Pain you forget. People come and go.

On this island, love affairs bloom like mushrooms. But you learn to commit to nothing. Except for the moment.

See No Evil, Hear No Evil

There is a dark side to the island that you discover eventually if you live here long enough. Initially, it disappoints. Later on you begin to understand that it’s a simple manifestation of the living truth that nothing is perfect yet. As beautiful as the island is, people after all are flawed.

Here, you see married guys bring their mistresses for a brief tryst and friends who know keep mum about it.

Occasionally, you see drunken tourists do the deed like oversexed dogs at the bar or at the public beach before a dining crowd and yet people just stare or simply turn their heads away in shame.

Here, drugs are served on a silver platter. There’s always someone too generous to roll it up for you or share a stick with you. You can always say no, of course, and no one will pressure you to take it. But it’s there if you want it.

One time, I came across a Russian girl, a long-time tourist, apparently too high on drugs and vodka that she was walking around the mall lifting her dress up and showing off her black panties, all the while laughing like a loon. Later that night, she was picked up by the island police but the locals who knew her knew she’ll be at it again after bail.

An aunt of mine once said that this island is like Sodom and Gomorrah. Maybe she’s right. But I wouldn’t say it too callously or without compassion.

I don’t believe people here generally tolerate the bad because they think it’s right. I think they do because, flawed and broken as they are, they too know what it’s like to make a mistake.

I think everyone at some point understands what it’s like to fail and hurt and to want to drown in your own craziness just to cope or ease the pain. A friend here told me, it’ll pass, that in time magsasawa rin ang mga yan. Eventually, everyone grows tired of falling, of drowning. It’s just a matter of time and of finding the courage to swim again.

It’s frustrating to see others make the wrong choices. But when you’ve made one or a couple yourself, you understand somehow that people are just trying to cope or do the best they can. You can only hope that we all get to find our way back.

Unload, Less Is More

One good thing about living in an expensive island, where most things are twice or thrice the city rates, is that it forces you to prioritize, unload, and just go for less.

I’ve learned to do away with bottled water after a month. I’d like to think this island wouldn’t be so populated if the tap water was that bad. But then honestly? It just took me that long to realize I was throwing away ridiculous amounts of cash on bottled water when I could barely pay my house rent.

On my first few days here, I was bombarded by the sight of so many shirtless men and women with barely their clothes on. I thought were just purely showing off but then I figured there’s a few more sensible reasons for that. One, laundry is expensive. Two, when it rains, it’s lighter to run with fewer clothes on. The lesser clothes you have, the less painful it is to get wet. Three, when it’s hot, it’s a blessed relief to be almost naked. Four, shopping is expensive. Five, it’s better to travel light.

And then, when you have the finest sand in Asia under your feet, you realize walking the island stretch barefoot as exercise is so much better than running the treadmill on your 3k Nike shoes.

But more than anything else, I’m amazed and inspired by the people I’ve known who managed to unload after some time on the island – particularly, their emotional baggage, stress, and extravagant lifestyles. From them I’ve learned peace is something money just can’t buy. You see them now living with less but not without dignity and contentment. As one of them said, “keep it simple, ang ganda na nang buhay (life is already beautiful as it is).”

It’s Not the Work, It’s the Life

Apparently on this island, no job is too small. Here, I’ve met an architect turned bartender, a receptionist with a film degree, a house deejay with business management experience. Once in a while, you’ll spot beach bums holding educated discussions on economics or politics or extreme sports, that is, when they’re not busy sidelining as waiters or bartenders or tour boys. You discover some of them are actually former city executives.

I remember asking some of them why they’re settling for such jobs when they could be earning so much more. Their answers are more or less the same: It’s not the work, it’s the life. When you find something beautiful, you’re willing to do anything to keep it.

As one of them explained: when you know it’s the life you want, the job doesn’t matter -- it’s just something you do. People work so hard to save money so they can come here to enjoy the island. But we’re already here, living the life a lot of people could only dream of when they retire. When you have the sun, sea and a family of friends, you discover you don’t really need so much more.

Black is Beautiful

At first, I found it unbelievable yet so funny. When I landed on the island, the first female I met told me, “Gosh, you’re so maputi (white). Don’t worry, we’ll work on that. Let’s hang out on the beach soon.” And I thought, she must be joking coz noooo waaayyy am I maputi.

And then, days passed and I got introduced to more people and I hear comments like, “Are you sure you’re your brother’s sister? Ba’t di ka maitim?” (as if it’s a sin or my fault) or “Hey, you’re still so white, nagkukulong ka na naman sa room ano? You should go out more often.”

I really didn’t know how to answer them because I couldn’t understand it. Inside my head I go, “What?! Are these island people crazy? Have the sun gone to their eyes and made them all blind?” I’m dark-skinned. I know because I’m vain and I always make it a point to look at the mirror. I’ve always been morena. I used to hate it when I was so much younger but I’ve long been proud of it. And here they tell me I needed more color. I’d be offended if only I didn’t think it was so funny.

Back home, you see, being black is something you’re supposed to overcome. Here, it’s something you strive for. Back home, whitening products sell like banana qs. Here, they have tanning sprays.

But then, white or black, it doesn’t really matter don’t you think? Beauty after all depends on who’s looking. The challenge there is to simply be comfortable in our own skin.

But still, after years of growing up in a white-crazy city, it’s just so refreshing to know that in some parts of the country, black is indeed beautiful after all.