My month in the Philippines was filled with some of the most incredible landscapes I’ve ever seen in my life. Starting in Manila was a good transition from Europe; the familiarity of the city helped me ease into a wildly different world, and the constant bustle left me longing for the islands that awaited me. Intramuros, a Spanish fort site, also provided similar words and architecture that I have been living in the past four years in Madrid. It felt like the universe’s way of weening me off of the style of society I’ve always known. I was immediately clicking with those around me, making connections at every turn — bar hopping, at resto-bars, and even (in a strange turn of events) at midget boxing.
Although most people were shocked that I only went to Palawan for the month (a reaction everyone had when I told them how long I was staying in most places during my travels), I loved the long island. In El Nido, dark grey limestone mountains jut out of crystal clear blue waters. The rocky landscape is occasionally lined with a white sand oasis and groups of towering palm trees that scream paradise. There is more space between the islands in Port Barton; they are flatter and coated in green jungle topping, lapped by deep blue waters.
I spent 20 days in El Nido, which was not the quiet, underdeveloped town that I read about online. Instead, the tourist-focused town was filled with constant noises of construction, blaring music, motorcars, and waves. Here, I discovered that silence is a privilege, mainly reserved for resorts hidden away from the local reality.
Walking around Manila made me realize how the American middle-class style of life I lead is often reserved for higher social statuses in other parts of the world — something that I was constantly challenged with throughout my trip. The biggest reminder that I had for myself was to let go of any kind of scale or comparison. In the U.S., these conditions might be thought of as “poverty.” Changing this immediate reaction took a lot more unpacking than I would like to admit. I hear about someone being buried without a coffin and feel uncomfortable, weary, and aching — I still do.
And then what is my role in this culture? Digital nomadism creates a moral imbalance within myself. I’m seeing how it is impacting local economies, but then should no one ever leave where they’re from? In El Nido (like many places around the world), the needs of the tourist often override the needs of the locals, making it difficult for anyone to actually live there. While other places put restrictions on tourism, that would seriously affect the local and national economies. This is something I’m still ruminating on — and probably doesn’t have one answer.
Moovin & Groovin 