how I learned to stop worrying and love the beach
August 3, 2003 | 12:00am
I must admit, I had some trepidation about going to Dos Palmas Arreceffi Island Resort in Palawan. I don’t usually trepidate – I’m not a trepid person – but with the somewhat scary E-mail I’ve been receiving from the US Embassy in Manila, I thought I had reason for concern:
"Because Abu Sayyaf has demonstrated its ability to travel long distances by boat to kidnap foreigners [such as the May 2001 kidnapping operation in Palawan] it is possible that other locations in the Philippines, such as beach resorts, could be attacked. Americans should particularly avoid beach resorts in areas where the Abu Sayyaf Group continues to be active." (E-mail dated July 17, a week before our trip)
Phew. Scary stuff. With that in mind, we packed our bags and visited the resort where lightning struck not once, but twice: it’s the site where 17 Filipinos and three Americans were abducted by Abu Sayyaf rebels early on May 27, 2001, and also the site where actor Rico Yan died in a cabin on March 30, 2002 after an alleged weekend of revelry with friends. That’s a lot of bad press to overcome, but Dos Palmas is climbing its way back, offering excellent service to those brave enough to venture south.
The name "Dos Palmas" refers to the two oversized palm trees visible from kilometers away as you approach the island by banca. (Locals nicknamed the place "Dos Malas" for the double dose of bad luck that happened here.)
As early as the Palawan airport, I noticed a shift in security: an immigration official quickly asked to see my passport, which has never happened to me on a domestic trip before. "Wanted" posters featuring the mug of escaped terrorist suspect Fathur Rohman Al-Ghozi were prominently displayed. It became quite clear to me: I was an American traveling in a place that Americans were advised to avoid.
But by a bizarre turn of events, Manila – not Palawan – was the flashpoint of security concern that same weekend, as AFP officers and soldiers took a commercial complex hostage and President Gloria Arroyo declared a "state of rebellion." We pondered the irony of this situation while snorkeling and kayaking the weekend away. Timing is everything, they say.
Still, as we approached Dos Palmas and walked up the pier to the main reception area, the absence of other guests was somewhat eerie. We later found out that off-season, the resort mostly gets "day-trippers" – folks who arrive in the morning, use the beach and facilities for the day, then speed away by 6 p.m. This made the evenings a little more ghostly. You could venture over to the resort’s recreation center after dinner, for instance, and find you had free run of the billiards, darts board, foosball and Ping-Pong tables.
But in truth, Dos Palmas has always sold itself on its "exclusivity": bumping into rowdy backpackers is the last thing you want at a place like this. The sands are fine and white (if the beach a little narrow); the cabins spacious and outfitted with arching, blonde-wood ceilings (there’s even a second floor bed for guests). Personal pampering is not hard to come by: the staff is nothing if not solicitous, open and friendly. (This is true for all Palawan residents I’ve met over the years, by the way.) Early on, I called the front desk asking for a thermos of hot water to wash out our baby bottles; within minutes, five such thermoses arrived.
But the questions still do arise, and we couldn’t help asking the staff about the two incidences of "malas." There was the pre-dawn assault, in which Abu rebels apparently made a brazen approach up the main beach and burst into occupied cabins, grabbing as many guests as they could and piling them into speedboats. This is a tourist’s worst nightmare. Before the Dos Palmas raid, it never even figured into the consciousness of most travelers, and in a way it became a frightening precursor of how far terrorism would spread by September 11, 2001.
So how has security been addressed since the Dos Palmas raid? We were pleased to find dead-bolt locks on each cabin door, in addition to chain-link and regular doorknob locks. (Still, we found ourselves double- and triple-locking the door every time we left and re-entered the cabin, even if we were just stepping onto the porch to lay out our wet mojos or swimsuits.)
A more visible sign of added security could be found when our group ventured out to the recreation center that night: they were immediately accompanied by private soldiers toting Armalite rifles. These are the private guards of Dos Palmas, a security force that live within the island’s barracks and patrol the resort’s perimeter round the clock. Wherever my sisters-in-law went at night, the guards were close by. At one point, my sister-in-law requested a deck of cards from a staff member; she in turn asked one of the guards to fetch it from the front desk. He declined, saying he could not leave his post. (Possibly, too, fetching playing cards was not part of his job description.) We found this attention to security impressive, and lightened up a bit more.
But later, during their games, a loud splash was heard from the beach. My sisters-in-law immediately froze, envisioning some kind of night invasion. Guards quickly swept the beachline with spotlights, patrolled the sands on foot. Ultimately, it was just a fish jumping in the waves. But it sure made the guests jumpy.
The other sticky subject was the demise of Rico Yan. We deftly tried to learn which of the 52 cabins he had stayed in; a staffer revealed simply that it was one of the bay cottages (Number 6, he said). There is a certain morbid fascination about such information, and it apparently extends to other guests, some of whom even request that specific cabin for their stay. Apparently, people will do a lot to brush up against fame – or infamy.
Far from deterring business, however, the Rico Yan incident seems to have sparked more interest in the resort. The staff says movie stars still seek out Dos Palmas, possibly because it’s the last place you’re going to be gawked at by rubberneckers.
Our trip was to include more than the usual adventuring: kayak trips around the island and through the mangrove forest, windsurfing, snorkeling, a free dive lesson for those who wanted it, and island-hopping (for an added fee). By the time we settled in, we’d forgotten about the Abu Sayyaf legacy and began focusing on the beauty that Palawan is rightly known for.
Bicycles are provided for guests to pedal around the small island of Arreceffi, but they’re mostly for convenience. It’s best to hop in a kayak and, if your arms are up to it, paddle around the coast and observe the mangrove wildlife. White, spear-nosed fish skim across the water right in front of your kayak, like cross-town traffic. Flocks of heron descend on the lush greenery, oblivious to your passing. There’s an idyllic, Edenic feel to being one of the sole people on an island. (In fact, a group of 30 visitors arrived the day before we left, including two foreigners.) During our brief island hop the second day, we took in Snake Island (named for its snaky shape) and Starfish Island, as well as a brief snorkel on an unnamed islet that had amazing, pristine coral.
The thing about Palawan resorts is that you never stay put: there are hundreds of private islands to visit, places to have lunch and swim, moments where you feel truly connected to nature. That, at least to some, is the attraction of quiet islands over hyper-developed tourist haunts.
On the last leg of our trip we visited nearby Puerta Princesa, and after an interminable, bumpy two-hour van trip, found ourselves underground, paddling through St. Paul’s Cave – a subterranean river system running eight kilometers through a mountainside. So named by Europeans who said it resembled St. Paul’s Basilica, the cave system harbors flocks of sparrows, sleeping bats, an amazing collection of stalagmites and stalactites, and the most pungent odor of bat urine imaginable. It’s a testament to how relaxed we’d become about visiting Palawan that the biggest concern we had at that point was to avoid getting peed on.
"Because Abu Sayyaf has demonstrated its ability to travel long distances by boat to kidnap foreigners [such as the May 2001 kidnapping operation in Palawan] it is possible that other locations in the Philippines, such as beach resorts, could be attacked. Americans should particularly avoid beach resorts in areas where the Abu Sayyaf Group continues to be active." (E-mail dated July 17, a week before our trip)
Phew. Scary stuff. With that in mind, we packed our bags and visited the resort where lightning struck not once, but twice: it’s the site where 17 Filipinos and three Americans were abducted by Abu Sayyaf rebels early on May 27, 2001, and also the site where actor Rico Yan died in a cabin on March 30, 2002 after an alleged weekend of revelry with friends. That’s a lot of bad press to overcome, but Dos Palmas is climbing its way back, offering excellent service to those brave enough to venture south.
The name "Dos Palmas" refers to the two oversized palm trees visible from kilometers away as you approach the island by banca. (Locals nicknamed the place "Dos Malas" for the double dose of bad luck that happened here.)
As early as the Palawan airport, I noticed a shift in security: an immigration official quickly asked to see my passport, which has never happened to me on a domestic trip before. "Wanted" posters featuring the mug of escaped terrorist suspect Fathur Rohman Al-Ghozi were prominently displayed. It became quite clear to me: I was an American traveling in a place that Americans were advised to avoid.
But by a bizarre turn of events, Manila – not Palawan – was the flashpoint of security concern that same weekend, as AFP officers and soldiers took a commercial complex hostage and President Gloria Arroyo declared a "state of rebellion." We pondered the irony of this situation while snorkeling and kayaking the weekend away. Timing is everything, they say.
Still, as we approached Dos Palmas and walked up the pier to the main reception area, the absence of other guests was somewhat eerie. We later found out that off-season, the resort mostly gets "day-trippers" – folks who arrive in the morning, use the beach and facilities for the day, then speed away by 6 p.m. This made the evenings a little more ghostly. You could venture over to the resort’s recreation center after dinner, for instance, and find you had free run of the billiards, darts board, foosball and Ping-Pong tables.
But in truth, Dos Palmas has always sold itself on its "exclusivity": bumping into rowdy backpackers is the last thing you want at a place like this. The sands are fine and white (if the beach a little narrow); the cabins spacious and outfitted with arching, blonde-wood ceilings (there’s even a second floor bed for guests). Personal pampering is not hard to come by: the staff is nothing if not solicitous, open and friendly. (This is true for all Palawan residents I’ve met over the years, by the way.) Early on, I called the front desk asking for a thermos of hot water to wash out our baby bottles; within minutes, five such thermoses arrived.
But the questions still do arise, and we couldn’t help asking the staff about the two incidences of "malas." There was the pre-dawn assault, in which Abu rebels apparently made a brazen approach up the main beach and burst into occupied cabins, grabbing as many guests as they could and piling them into speedboats. This is a tourist’s worst nightmare. Before the Dos Palmas raid, it never even figured into the consciousness of most travelers, and in a way it became a frightening precursor of how far terrorism would spread by September 11, 2001.
So how has security been addressed since the Dos Palmas raid? We were pleased to find dead-bolt locks on each cabin door, in addition to chain-link and regular doorknob locks. (Still, we found ourselves double- and triple-locking the door every time we left and re-entered the cabin, even if we were just stepping onto the porch to lay out our wet mojos or swimsuits.)
A more visible sign of added security could be found when our group ventured out to the recreation center that night: they were immediately accompanied by private soldiers toting Armalite rifles. These are the private guards of Dos Palmas, a security force that live within the island’s barracks and patrol the resort’s perimeter round the clock. Wherever my sisters-in-law went at night, the guards were close by. At one point, my sister-in-law requested a deck of cards from a staff member; she in turn asked one of the guards to fetch it from the front desk. He declined, saying he could not leave his post. (Possibly, too, fetching playing cards was not part of his job description.) We found this attention to security impressive, and lightened up a bit more.
But later, during their games, a loud splash was heard from the beach. My sisters-in-law immediately froze, envisioning some kind of night invasion. Guards quickly swept the beachline with spotlights, patrolled the sands on foot. Ultimately, it was just a fish jumping in the waves. But it sure made the guests jumpy.
The other sticky subject was the demise of Rico Yan. We deftly tried to learn which of the 52 cabins he had stayed in; a staffer revealed simply that it was one of the bay cottages (Number 6, he said). There is a certain morbid fascination about such information, and it apparently extends to other guests, some of whom even request that specific cabin for their stay. Apparently, people will do a lot to brush up against fame – or infamy.
Far from deterring business, however, the Rico Yan incident seems to have sparked more interest in the resort. The staff says movie stars still seek out Dos Palmas, possibly because it’s the last place you’re going to be gawked at by rubberneckers.
Our trip was to include more than the usual adventuring: kayak trips around the island and through the mangrove forest, windsurfing, snorkeling, a free dive lesson for those who wanted it, and island-hopping (for an added fee). By the time we settled in, we’d forgotten about the Abu Sayyaf legacy and began focusing on the beauty that Palawan is rightly known for.
Bicycles are provided for guests to pedal around the small island of Arreceffi, but they’re mostly for convenience. It’s best to hop in a kayak and, if your arms are up to it, paddle around the coast and observe the mangrove wildlife. White, spear-nosed fish skim across the water right in front of your kayak, like cross-town traffic. Flocks of heron descend on the lush greenery, oblivious to your passing. There’s an idyllic, Edenic feel to being one of the sole people on an island. (In fact, a group of 30 visitors arrived the day before we left, including two foreigners.) During our brief island hop the second day, we took in Snake Island (named for its snaky shape) and Starfish Island, as well as a brief snorkel on an unnamed islet that had amazing, pristine coral.
The thing about Palawan resorts is that you never stay put: there are hundreds of private islands to visit, places to have lunch and swim, moments where you feel truly connected to nature. That, at least to some, is the attraction of quiet islands over hyper-developed tourist haunts.
On the last leg of our trip we visited nearby Puerta Princesa, and after an interminable, bumpy two-hour van trip, found ourselves underground, paddling through St. Paul’s Cave – a subterranean river system running eight kilometers through a mountainside. So named by Europeans who said it resembled St. Paul’s Basilica, the cave system harbors flocks of sparrows, sleeping bats, an amazing collection of stalagmites and stalactites, and the most pungent odor of bat urine imaginable. It’s a testament to how relaxed we’d become about visiting Palawan that the biggest concern we had at that point was to avoid getting peed on.
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