School of Hard Knocks for Cambodia's Street KIds

School of Hard Knocks for Cambodia’s Street Kids
By Joel Katz

On a recent trip to Cambodia, my travelling partner and I were constantly harassed by street kids trying to sell tacky trinkets or squeeze us for a few dollars. Sure, we felt like grazing gazelles on the African savannah being constantly stalked by hungry hyenas, but it was hard not to succumb to the street kids’ wily charm. After chatting with a few of these little guys, we discovered that they were full of untapped potential, and we’re sure if given half a chance they’d have bright futures. Shame is those opportunities rarely arise. Here’s a little snapshot of our experience:

As our motorboat skips along the river surface past the floating village of Chong Keas, a group of skinny kids joke around on the steep muddy banks, dive-bombing into the thick, brown water below. As they swim through the water, it’s as if they’re splashing about in one of Willy Wonka’s chocolate streams while their Oompa Loompa-sized mothers hop up and down on wooden houseboat patios, calling them to do their chores...

Located a short tuk-tuk drive from the northern Cambodian city of Siem Reap, which is famous as the launching pad for trips to the ancient temple city of Angkor Wat, Chong Keas is one of the less known tourist destinations in the area.

Fresh-faced and bored-looking, Nhean, aged 16, is at our boat’s wheel, while our tour guide, 15 year old Lee, looks down on us from the boat’s raised brightly painted bow, squatting Asian-style on his haunches. He wears a thoughtful expression on his weather beaten, wizened face which looks oddly out of place atop his tiny child-like frame.

As the speedboat chugs along the cocoa-coloured waterway (which I’m sure would be slightly less palatable if you were unlucky enough to get a mouthful), Lee points to the houses, schools, shops and a basketball court that all bob up and down on the water, explaining in flawless English that all activities happen right here on the river.

“There floating school…” he explains, “…and there, floating house with floating babies, floating dogs, floating chickens and floating pigs.” He waves at my girlfriend who sits opposite him, perched awkwardly on a spine-twistingly uncomfortable wooden seat, and continues his commentary smilingly, “…and there are some floating sunglasses on a floating nose.” My girlfriend suddenly becoming self-conscious, adjusts her new shiny shades, and responds with a little chuckle.

Lee tells us that despite being a mix of Cambodians, Vietnamese and Indonesian Muslims, everyone living on the river gets along fine, and mixed marriages are common. He explains that the combined river and lake system that our speedboat is currently navigating, known as Tonle Sap in the Khmer language, is unusual as it changes direction twice a year. “During the dry season the river disappears” he tells us “and the entire village is towed into the Tonle Sap Lake. But during the wet season, this place fills up again, and the floating village is tugged back here to the river.”

It’s strange hearing this pint-sized local kid, who has spent most of his life on the tributaries running off the mighty Mekong River, telling us the story of this blighted country with all the gravitas of a Professor in Southeast Asian Politics and Culture 101. He tells us about the national elections that are taking place, how the nation’s long-ruling Prime Minister Hun Sen will almost certainly retain his position at the top, and how corruption is probably Cambodia’s biggest obstacle to socioeconomic progress.

Deeply impressed by his effortless English and his insight into the world around him, I ask him about his schooling. He flashes another smile, revealing big snow white teeth, and sweeps his long bleached blonde fringe off his dark forehead with a flick of the hand. “Not much school” he explains. “Most of my English I picked up off tourists on the boat. I can also speak French and Italian and some other languages.”

“School here is expensive…” he continues, “…about twenty-five American dollars a month. That’s a lot of money. We work all day on the river, and then if we have enough money, we go to English school at night for a few hours.”

Then the pitch: “Maybe you can help me and my friends pay for English school. If you give us some money, we can go to school, improve our English, and this is very good for us. My parents are both sick. They don’t work, so I have to take care of them and my two younger brothers.”

This rather ticklish episode repeats itself over and over again during our trip to Cambodia. You only have to sneak one hesitant toe out of the relatively safe sanctuary of your hotel lobby and a gang of ruddy faced Cambodian street kids pounce, like a pack of famished African Hunting Dogs bringing down a poor defenceless Impala fawn. And these street urchins are just as desperate as any starving African Hunting Dog.

Like the street kids from so many other poor countries, if you let down your defences for but one nanosecond, these Cambodian scamps will latch on, and win you over with razor sharp wit and abundant charm. Then they go for the hard sell, hawking a wide selection of tacky trinkets, or less often, just asking for a bottle of coke, some pizza or a couple of bucks.

As we scaled the steep, stone walls of the centuries old temple systems around the ancient city of Angkor, overwhelmed by the sheer scale and majesty of this fallen Khmer civilisation, street kids, some as young as four, constantly nipped at our heels, pleading for us to buy something. These kids followed us as we stepped into the Ta Prohm temple complex, the otherworldly film location for Angelina Jolie’s Tomb Raider, skipping nimbly, as we stumbled, over the muscular tree trunks that twisted and twined their way around seemingly indestructible slabs of rock, crushing them effortlessly.

On reaching the pinnacle of a rather high temple tower after a particularly tough climb, I was feeling like a bit of a superhero myself. While doubled over in a wheezing fit and trying to soak up the sweat pouring off my brow, a cute little local girl, no older than ten, skipped down a tumble of large stones, as graceful as a mountain goat, and introduced herself in perfect Spanish. Between gasps, I snorted back in broken Spanish that I was Australian, even though I sound Canadian.

On cue she shot back in exquisite English, “Ah, Australia. G’day mate. Capital city: Canberra. Prime Minister: Mistah Rudd. Population: approximately 20 million. Many kangaroos, and koalas, which are very cute. I love koalas. Do you have some Australian coins? Your money is very colourful.”

She concluded with a playful bow, and explained that to fully appreciate the grand splendour of the Angkor temple complex we’d definitely need a guide book, one that was both entertaining and fact-filled. Out of no where, what appeared to be her younger sister popped out from behind a giant stone with a cardboard tray tied around her neck filled with assorted books. “Only five US dollars”, she declared.

A real Spanish tourist was gingerly making his way down the steep, slippery staircase, and she bounded up to him with a winning smile.

“Where you from?” She shouted.

“I am from Barthelona. Spain”, he replied out of breath, “and you?”

“Me? I am from my mother!”

And without losing a beat she switched languages, and started speaking Spanish. “Spain. Population: approximately 40 million. Prime Minister: Senor Zapatero. Capital: Madrid. The Spanish are very good at tennis. I like Nadal.” And so it went.

On my many escapades around the world, through Latin America, Africa and Southeast Asia, all very poor geopolitical regions, I’m always stunned at how cluey these street kids are. It’s a crazy comparison, I know, but I think of myself at ten years old, and the protected little haven my parents built around me, doing their very best to offer me every opportunity possible.

While the street kids can engage in some sort of exchange in three or four languages, my own grasp of English was questionable. While they wheel and deal, like little Hollywood producers plugging the latest DC Comic blockbuster, I spent one fruitless summer outside our house selling homemade lemonade. If I made one sale mum would treat me like the next Warren Buffet.

I wasn’t the brightest spark...

In the developed world, today’s kids have their eyeballs glued to their TV screens blasting away sociopaths in the latest version of Grand Theft Auto, while shooting text messages off to each other on their 3G, Bluetooth enabled handsets, arranging to meet at the local shopping mall so they can buy their skinny jeans and oversized florescent t-shirt tops.

But for Cambodia’s kids fending for themselves on the street, just getting through the day is an ordeal. They are denied many basic necessities such as education, nutrition, good role models, supportive families, shelter and clean drinking water. Using their street smarts to get a meal or a warm place to sleep, they reminded me of that lovable little tramp from Oliver Twist, the Artful Dodger.

Just like Dickens’s cocky cockney kid, they’re full of bluff and bluster, giving off an air of invincibility. Like super-absorbent sponges utilising polymer membrane technology, they soak up every bit of information around them, filing the data away in their frontal lobes for later use.

Sure, they possess an uncanny ability to regurgitate memorised lines in multiple languages in an effort to squeeze out a few laughs and perhaps a few dollars from besieged tourists. But without the basic fundamentals of a quality education, it’s questionable how far these street smarts will take them. With little or no formal schooling, they can’t develop the skills that help lay down the foundation for growth, transformation, innovation, opportunity, a sense of responsibility and equality – all cornerstones of a good education.

Given half a chance, I’ve no doubt that these kids would excel at school and have the brightest futures. Back on the boat, when I ask our guide what he wants to do in the future, he replies he just wants to improve his already impeccable English.

“Why”, I ask?

“So I can continue working on the boat”, he responds.

Without any education or any opportunities to get skilled jobs that might help lift them out of poverty, they’ve little ambition and low expectations for their future.

At the end of the boat trip, my girlfriend and I hand over about ten American dollars - after already being overcharged – and explain that Lee and his friends can use it to help pay for English school.

He takes the money, disappointment painted across his face. “Ten dollars”, he shakes his head sadly. “I have to split this with my other friends”, he explains, waving his hand in the direction of Nhean and another quiet little guy sitting at the back of the boat. “It is not much. Please can you give me more for our school?”

We reluctantly fork over a few more bucks, leaving us with just enough to get a tuk-tuk ride back to town.

“Thanks” he murmurs, not meaning it, hooks the bow line onto the mooring, and hops onto the ramshackle old wooden pier, which looks as if it might collapse into the water at any moment. Standing there in his skinny jeans and over-sized fluorescent pink and yellow t-shirt, he pulls a mobile phone out of his pocket and starts yapping to a buddy. Are they planning to meet up for a game of soccer or Grand Theft Auto?

Seems like these kids have something in common with their Aussie counterparts after all.

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Muddled and Mishapen in Manila

Muddled and Misshapen in Manila
By Joel Katz

“Eeeeeeeeee… KarBOOM!”, and another inner-ear bursting explosion goes off nearby - my knees start shaking uncontrollably. As we cough and splutter on our rooftop terrace, the noise of laughing, screaming kids and stereos blasting the latest American hip-hop from the alleyways below, reminds us that this isn’t a conflict-ridden hotspot, but just another firecracker-free-for-all Saturday night in the working class suburbs of North-eastern Manila.

Speaking candidly, I never really expected to find myself – an Aussie-Canadian of Jewish descent and delicate bowels – spending time inside the ghettos of Manila, but here I am starring in my own Filipinoised version of ‘Meet the Parents’...

But instead of facing a waspy white-bread-eating family headed by De Niro’s menacing and humourless father, I’m meeting a clan of karaoke-crazy, fried-chicken chomping, bawdy insult-flinging Filipinos.

Born in the Philippines, my girlfriend moved to Australia when she was a kid, and we’ve joined her parents on this family reunion of sorts. Sure, the allusion to the Byrne family in the Stiller blockbuster might be extreme, but I’m a bumbling incompetent, and there’s probably no place on earth where a Jewish guy might feel more out of place than in one of the world’s most devoutly Catholic countries.

Will I, like Stiller’s Gaylord Fokker, discover some deep truths about my girlfriend’s strange and exotic family, and maybe my girlfriend too?

Who knows? But I’m sure to have many adventures over the next three weeks.

With fireworks exploding around our ears, some neighbours have gathered on the street below, so we make our way downstairs to join the festive crowd.

Scurrying down the top flight of stairs of the tall and thin family residence, I slip across the second level’s frictionless tiled floor careening past the life-sized poly-resin statue of infant Jesus, dressed, incongruously, in camouflage army fatigues. His large, soft-blue glass eyes follow me imploringly, as I swivel around the balustrade.

He seems to be reaching out to me as I bound down the lower stair case, a Hello Kitty keychain and assorted trinkets dangling from his outstretched hand.

“Join the fold, oh heathen”, he whispers.

I forget that I’m a non-believer momentarily until I slide, like an iceberg-luging penguin, across the tiles of the ground floor and pass under an enormous, puffy wall-hanging of ‘The Last Supper’.

Outside, the narrow streets seem to be ruled by the cast of ‘Lord of the Flies’ as scores of kids set off homemade firecrackers while others break dance to some ‘Phat’ rap beats.

Wait a sec, is this South-central LA, or Manila?

Turns out there’s not much difference, I realise, as a conga-line of pint-sized Southeast Asian ‘homies’ ‘hip-hop’ by me like krumping kangaroos, drowning in their baggy white shorts and over-sized Chicago Bulls basketball singlets.

We decide to get something to eat, so we make our way to the monstrous Mall of Asia, the third largest shopping complex in the world, located near the international airport in Manila’s southern suburbs.

Setting off on the long journey, we hop on one of the famous Filipino jeepneys - pimped out jeeps with extended carriage space in the rear for passengers. Other jeepneys weave around us like a school of metallic, smoke-belching sharks, splashed with gaudy colours and intricate art works of Jesus, Elvis and Bart Simpson.

“Bayad!” blurts the guy next to me, as he dumps a handful of peso coins into my sweaty palms. “Sweet”, I think, pocketing the change, amazed at the generosity of the toothless, shoeless little old guy jammed under my armpit.

Gloating at my new found wealth my mortified girlfriend quickly explains that “bayad” means “Fare, driver”, not “Take my life savings, kind foreigner”, so I reluctantly fish it out of my baggy shorts pocket and pass it on.

The jeepneys stops at Divisoria, a bustling and chaotic local market where shoppers ascend to heaven, and we dive headlong into the teaming masses and snaffle some incredible bargains, including some super-fly trainers, designer jeans and DVDs, all dirt cheap, and as fake as Paris Hilton’s smile.

Afterwards we jump onto a local bus, and continue our trip to the super mall. Crawling along at a snail’s pace, fresh-faced Tita Espie (aunties are called Tita) points to an official notice glued above our heads in bold lettering, translating it from Tagalog.

“Mistresses of the employees of this bus company are prohibited from riding on this vehicle”, she explains, vigorously nodding her head in agreement, and simultaneously trying not to gag on the putrescent mix of stank wafting into the bus from the open sewers.

“Why don’t the rivals set up a bus fleet for the mistresses”, I respond cheerfully, and Tita Espie’s previously invisible husband bursts into laughter, slapping me on the back.

“Why’s he suddenly treating me like his poker-playing buddy?” I whisper to my girlfriend, as he sits guffawing behind me. Meanwhile Tita Espie stares grimly out the window at the road-side slums, splashed yellow, black and red, the colours of a local cola brand.

My beloved quietly explains that he’d cheated on his wife with five different women, and apparently he was impressed by my pathetic remark.

From that point on I was his new best friend, and Tita Espie ignored me completely.

Finally we reach the mammoth mall, bail out of the bus. Pushing past the throngs, we shun the mall’s internal tram system, making our way by foot to the expansive restaurant precinct. My girlfriend’s entire extended family trail behind us as we look for a suitable eating venue.

Hmm… ‘Shakey’s’ has great fried chicken, but can it beat ‘Max’s: The House that Fried Chicken Built’?

We shuffle past Yellow Cab Pizza, Greenwich Pizza, Subway, Pizza Hut, Burger Machine, Zagoos, Chowking, Dunkin’ Donuts and Goldilocks, but no-one can select from any of these high-class eateries.

“I wanna eat at Jolibee!” shouts AJ, my girlfriend’s super-cute but acerbic and diabetes-bound five year old cousin.

Seeing the Jolibee mascot is a trip in itself: like a red shiny morphing of a Teletubby and a bumblebee. Just walk into one of these fast-food joints and your arteries harden, as you squeeze in-between the sea of plastic tables and chairs.

Thousands of bento box styrofoam trays litter the tabletops, filled with scrumptious items like the Spicy Chickenjoy - apparently both Crispylicious and Jucylicious - and an unidentifiable object smothered in pink mayonnaise goop dubbed the Double Cheesy Bacon Yum Burger; all as glossy and artificial looking as the giant, cheerful fibreglass mascot spruiking out in front.

As we make our way back home, my belly starts bubbling like Mount Pinatubo, the active volcano to Manila’s northwest: knew I shouldn’t have finished off Tita Lita’s super cheesy bacon fries.

When we get back home we tumble out of the jeepney. The street party’s still in full swing, and a heavyset lady starts lumbering towards me. She’s decked out in an elegant black and white polka-dot summer dress, a matching wide brimmed polka-dot hat, and knee-high leather boots, as if she’s on her way to the Spring Carnival at Randwick Race Course.

She starts to gyrate towards me in an oddly captivating manner.

As she gets closer I discover that she has a five o’clock shadow and chest hair. She’s actually one of the famous drag queens that sashay around the streets of Manila on festive nights, dancing for their neighbours and earning some pesos for their titillating talents. Also known as Baklas, they play an important role in Filipino culture, particularly as performers and comedians.

Suddenly the flowing dress flies above her head, and I instinctively duck behind a fruit stall. She intercepts me mid-dive and starts shaking her ample polka-a-dot thonged buttocks in my face. With all that ‘junk in her trunk’ my acid reflux is going berserk, so I cover myself with fresh produce as neighbourhood kids jostle around me, yelping with joy.

An old guy nestles next to me under the pile of fruit, his wizened eyes smiling out of his dark leathery face. He shoves a plastic cup full of a lethal mix of San Miguel beer and the local firewater into my hand, and wraps his arm around my shoulders, as if I were his long lost grandson.

It’s kind of weird having this grandpa-grandson type bonding moment as a hirsute she-man thrusts ‘her’ pelvis violently towards us, so I take a swig of the brown liquid and relish the moment.

Keen to put an end to this crescendo of hip-jabs, I quickly hand over a fistful of pesos. She tucks the notes in ‘her’ bra and resumes ‘her’ booty shaking side shuffle down the alleyway, followed by a chorus of lusty hoots and hurrahs.

The Videoke machine is firing up inside, so I give my new-found grandpa a pat on the back, down the rest of the awful concoction and make my way back inside. CJ, another of my girlfriend’s countless Manila cousins, is crouched forward on the carved wooden sofa, a microphone poised in front of his face.

He’s passionately belting out a version of Oasis’s ‘Champagne Supernova’ in a flawless Mancunian accent, “Shhhhampagne Soooopah-Novaaaah in the skyyyyyyee”.

One thing about Filipinos, with their jumbled heritage, including 400 years of Spanish colonisation and decades of American rule, is that they are unlike any other Asians, in both look and temperament. With all that Latin influence, how could they not love music?

Even the most tone-deaf of them won’t hesitate to snatch the karaoke mike from your tightened grip and burst into a rendition of ‘My Way’, and the city’s packed with roadside karaoke stands.

They usually nail their songs too, mimicking exactly the crooning style of Sinatra or even the gravelly ‘Norvern Anglish’ twang of Liam Gallagher.

There’s no way I can compete with these musical freaks, so me and my girlfriend opt for bed. We wave a feeble goodnight to her family who are all jacked up on karaoke, KFC and RC Cola, and crawl up stairs to our bedroom.

Infant Jesus is still perched on the side-table, glass eyes as gentle as ever and arms still outstretched, but now a mini-carton of ‘Selecta Chocolate Moo Milk’, illustrated with a little safari-suited Moo Cow peering out from a jungle scene, lies crumpled at his holy feet.

I flick it into the bin, feeling like a Good Samaritan.

Collapsing on our burger-bun-soft mattress, with my amazing girlfriend’s elbow wedged into my kidneys, I think back on the night’s escapades, and what I’m learning about my beloved and her sugar-coated country of origin.

Not sure if it’s that honey glazed donut holes are a staple here, or that they’re blessed with faith, joie de vivre and an awesome sense of humour, but Filipinos are probably some of the most wonderful folk I’ve ever met.

The sounds of Beyonce and blasting fireworks from outside lull us into a deep slumber.

Tomorrow I ‘Meet the Grandparents’.

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Lost in the Philippines

Lost in the Philippines
By Joel Katz

When my girlfriend and I explored the limestone islands of the stunning Bacuit Archipelago, in the Philippines, we ended up in our own goofy version of 'Lost'.

Just a forty-five minute flight south of Manila, El Nido is a gateway to the Bacuit Archipelago which boasts a never-ending flotilla of enormous limestone pinnacles jutting out of the tropical blue-green sea.

Every bit as stunning as Thailand’s Phi Phi Island or Vietnam’s Ha Long Bay, it’s located on the northern tip of the island of Palawan, about seven hours drive from the main port city of Puerto Princessa.



My girlfriend and I arrived in the charming town of El Nido yesterday, and are keen to check out the surrounding island-dotted archipelago. Waking up early, the aroma of frying banana pancakes wafts through our window, and we make our way down to our hotel’s lobby to sign up for one of the four island-hopping day trips on offer.

We finally secure our masks and fins, after a furious skirmish with a very blonde German family, and head down to a little weather-beaten outrigger boat, or Bangka, bobbing up and down in the cerulean blue sea. We’ve decided on Tour A, which takes us to nearby Miniloc Island, with its three tropical lagoons, and the white sand beaches of Simizu and Entulala Islands.

For under US$20 you can arrange these day trips at any hotel or tour operator in town.

With prominent buck-teeth nibbling at the air, our friendly tour guide, No-No, welcomes us on board, and signals for the boat-driver, Yes-Yes, to spark up the engine. A bunch of local kids do back flips off the boat’s bamboo outrigger poles as we head out of El Nido Harbour, into the maze of lush islands ahead.

After a short trip, we arrive at Miniloc Island, entering a large limestone opening that leads into the aptly named Small Lagoon - the perfect hideout for the ‘Pirate of the Caribbean’s’ Captain Jack Sparrow and Co.

Jumping into the water, we form a watery conga-line and snorkel through a series of rocky nooks and crannies into another azure pool, called Secret Lagoon. The visibility is great, and we spot lots of brightly coloured tropical fish and scattered coral.

After exploring the lagoons and several spectacular caves inside the Karst formations, we swim back to the boat, and scramble aboard, ready to motor off to our next stop-off.

But our tour guide seems skittish, and we soon discover why. Our boatman can’t get the rusty old outboard motor started.

“Little problem – Fix soon”, he explains diplomatically.

My girlfriend – who’s Australian-Filipino – looks concerned.

She gives me a more accurate translation of the increasingly heated conversation between No-No and the boatman.

“The engine’s completely screwed’, she explains dryly.

After a few more desperate attempts to fire up the engine, our guide explains that the bangka’s kaput. He waves over a nearby island-hopping resort catamaran anchored in the lagoon: it pulls up next to us and we tumble aboard.

Squashing ourselves between some reluctant Japanese tourists, we sink into the soft padded seating, and notice that this new vessel is much spiffier than our battered old outrigger. But our elation is short-lived: we feel as welcome as a severe case of heat stroke.

Our new Cat sets sail, leaving our broken old boat far behind bouncing around in the waves.

As the resort Cat zigzags through the network of islands, our new guide explains how the surrounding Karst structures are formed. Like the hands of a master sculptor, the rainwater shapes the natural obelisks into fantastic shapes, scooping out their insides and turning them into lumpy limestone versions of Paris’ Notre Dame Cathedral.

Deep within these Karst cathedrals live little birds, called ‘swiftlets’, who sacrifice their nests-‘Los Nidos’ in Spanish – to the bird nest soup trade. Made of bird saliva, these sticky nests end up in thousands of Chinese eateries, ensuring the customers enjoy balanced Qi and baby-bottom soft skin.

Ahead of us lies the pretty Entulala Island. We cruise into a little sandy cove enclosed by a steep Karst cliff wall, and wade toward the shore. No-No builds a fire on the beach and starts grilling long silvery milk fish on a pile of glowing embers.

While we wait for lunch we strap on snorkel masks and plunge into the warm sea. A few turtles poke their heads out of the water momentarily, and then quickly disappear, and we’re all in fine spirits until the Dutch guy almost backstrokes into a startled, and very poisonous, sea snake.

Back on the beach, the resort boat passengers scoff down their gourmet sandwiches. A few shots are snapped; they gather up their beach towels and fluorescent Crocs, and make their way to the shoreline where their boat’s waiting.

Chaos ensues: dashing down to the water’s edge we stand alongside the German family and the Dutch couple and watch in disbelief as the resort guests motor off, casually sipping icy cans of Pepsi as they abandon us to our unknown fate.

“They leave now. Continue tour. We wait for another boat. Come soon! Come soon!” No-No assures us.

We spend the rest of the day entertaining ourselves by playing coconut soccer and beachcombing.

My girlfriend and I talk to a friendly Dutch couple about the array of terrific cafes and restaurants back in El Nido town, and decide to join them later for dinner.

Maybe we’ll eat pancetta pizza at the Artcafe, an airy Spanish Colonial style eatery, or some tasty organic food from the Alternative, a cafe where you can enjoy ocean views from comfy billowy pods suspended above the beach.

But one thing is for sure: we’ll finish things off with a mouth-watering chocolate crepe at a tiny café called The Coffee Shop; then trundle down to Sea Slugs, a popular beach bar, for some cold beers and live music.

We take a nap under a grove of swaying palm trees, and wake up sun-dazed and worried. It’s been about six hours since the resort guys left, and it’s getting dark.

We feel like a less attractive version of the cast of the TV show ‘Lost’; but without catering.

As the sun drops towards the horizon, the sky lights up like a flaming dome, flicks of fiery red caramelising the wispy edges of the fairy floss clouds – then darkness falls.

Still no rescue boat!!!

Suddenly we spot a tiny light approaching and soon see Yes-Yes, waving happily as he pilots our beaten up outrigger towards the shore.

Back on board we’re cold and wet but overjoyed that we’ll soon be back in El Nido. Yes-Yes sparks up the motor: the ignition sparks, coughs, splutters and dies.

A mist descends over us as we sit huddled in our lifeless boat – but just as we lose all hope the white resort Cat slides out of the fog, like a kindly mythical sea dragon. The captain hooks a rope to our bow and they start towing us back to the mainland.

Looking back at our island paradise, we see three giant Monitor Lizards slithering out of a cave, sniffing and nuzzling a stack of coconuts we had left on the sand.

Skipping along the waves, my girlfriend pokes me in the kidneys, muttering, “I told you we should have taken Tour B!!”

But I’m not so sure.

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