4 hours and 32 minutes. That was my official time for the recently concluded Condura Run for the Dolphins 2010 marathon – my first ever legitimate 42km race. I made a promise to myself that I’d complete one this year. And I’m glad that I did. I was thinking though that I’d finish the race within four hours. Apparently, I still ain’t got the juice to hack it.

The race kicked off with a fanfare of dancers and fireworks and a flurry of 700 runners scampering about along the thoroughfares of Fort Bonifacio at 4:00 in the morning. I started out strong enough during the early part of the race, running at an average pace of 5.7 minutes every kilometer – mathematically quick enough to get me to the finish line just within my 4-hour target, provided that I am able to maintain the tempo. However, some tightness already started to creep up my legs just before the halfway mark, and I soon had to break my stride into a more measured unhurried gait if I wanted to finish the race in good shape. The plodding seemed interminable, and I had to find the mental tenacity to keep my mind of the distance and just keep on going. The most brutal part came during the last few kilometers of the race where we had to digress from the most direct route to the finish line just to complete a 3 kilometer loop. That was perhaps the longest 3 kilometers I have ever run. Yet, a finish is a finish, and at least now I have a banchmark with which to compare my performance in future marathons.

I got to Louie’s house expecting that we’d be off as soon as I’ve arrived. But Louie apparently had some other things to attend to first, while his wife, Pia, and their kids, Roxy and Ariel, were still fixing up. I guess it was just as well since much to my idiocy, I had forgotten to bring my diving fins and thus had to go back to the house for it. It was already somewhere past 8AM when we were all well on the way to Zambales where the shoot was located.

The shoot was in the town of Pundaquit, a town I remember well from a past tragedy. We headed to a resort called Punta de Uian, a sprawling, finely-built resort situated in the middle of nowhere. The place was quite cut off from the last main road that it was rather a wonder if any tourist ever did venture into this isolated neck of the woods. We started setting up our gears, planned out the sequences of shots that we were going to do, and waited most of the time for the logistics and for the talent doubles whom we were supposed to shoot to be ready. It was already past 3PM when we finally headed across from the resort to nearby Capones Island where we surmised that conditions were more suitable for our shooting purposes than conditions at the resort. Three o’clock I the afternoon, however, was already too late a time for us to be starting shooting given the number of sequences that we were supposed to film. Moreover, sea conditions at Capones were not as favorable as we imagined, as rough water surface and some considerable undercurrent made our task less than a walk in the park, not to mention also the fact that our talent doubles were not exactly talented swimmers. The talents and their doubles were all kids, and I remember the father of one of the doubles bragging that his kid is good underwater as his kid is a gymnast. (Don’t ask me what’s the connection since I myself have no idea what the father was talking about.)

By the time the sun had set, we still have not finished most of the other sequences that we were supposed to do. We headed back to the resort, anticipating that we’d just be cheating some of the shots in the swimming pool by lighting up the pool as if it were daytime.

I, Louie, Pia, Roxy, and Ariel all bunked in room waiting for word from the crew as to what time we would be resuming the shoot. Hours passed with no word from the production staff, and it was already 1AM the next day when Louie finally got a call from one of the production assistants telling us that the underwater scenes will just have to be rescheduled for another day and that we were free to pack up and go home. Needless to say, we were both irked and delighted at the long wait for our leave. Aaah yes...such is the indulgence of life in film production.

I got a text message from Pastor, asking me if I’d like to join him for a rock climbing excursion in Atimonan Quezon. He mentioned that it was being shot for some local TV program. Without batting an eyelash, I answered with a definite yes.

I left Manila by bus at 3:30 early Saturday morning in order to get to Lucena by 6:30. I went by myself, bringing gears and personal provisions. It was great looking forward to getting back on the rocks again. I got to Lucena on time, nearly failing to promptly get off the bus since I had soundly drifted away to la-la land. I met up with Pastor at Jollibee at the bus station, where he was already with some other guests for the trip – local photography enthusiasts who were there to shoot the excursion while experiencing outdoor climbing for themselves. We later met up with a couple more guys and were soon after on our way to the climb site in Tinandog.

The day wasn’t turning out so well though as rain started to pour during our drive to the site. The shower ended soon enough after our arrival at Tinandog, but the rocks were most likely already wet and ill-suited for climbing.

The municipal mayor of Atimonan came. Apparently, pastor is well-acquainted with the mayor since Pastor has eversince been advocating the promotion and conservation of the limestone hills of Tinandog as a climbing destination. The mayor as he and his party were anticipating the arrival of the TV film crew who were going to cover the activity.

Pastor decided to set up at Windy Wall where most of the rock face still somehow remained dry despite the morning’s downpour. The ground though was all soggy and muddy, and so keeping our gears clean and keeping perched on the sloping terrain at the foot of the rock face was quite problematic.

Some of the established routes on Windy Wall were intimidating for me, and I particularly had a hard time completing one route wherein I had to completely veer offline onto another adjacent route just in order to get to the top. Other than that one particular route, I managed to competently complete all the other routes that I took on.

It was already almost lunch time when the TV crew finally showed up. Much to Pastor’s disappointment, the shooting was apparently for a children’s program and not for some hardline sports-oriented show. There were two kiddie hosts whom Pastor geared up and who took turns at the route that Pastor set up for them. But none of them could really get up very high as the route was undoubtedly beyond what these kids with no climbing experience could handle. The director though wanted to get a shot of a kiddie host completing a route and delivering a spiel on how fulfillingly challenging the climbing was, and so several guys in the climb party had to heave and winch a girl host up a decent height along the rock face just to make it look like she has managed to get up the route by herself. (Aaah... The illusions that television weaves...)

It started to drizzle once more just after noon, and though the rain still has not dampened the rocks, it was enough to soak the enthusiasm of people to do any more climbing for the day. So we soon all packed up, and after some brief socials statrted heading our separate ways. Pastor invited me and two other guys to have some coffee at his house in Lucena. There, Pastor gave each of us, his guests, take-home tokens from his personal library. Pastor gave me a book – an autobiographical account of a female climber who lived out a harrowing ascent to the summit of Mt. McKinley during one of the mountain’s most terrible snow storms.

The day, I guess, didn’t really turn out that well for climbing. But that was not so much of a concern. The real highlight of the day for me was the coffee ant Pastor’s house and the take-away present I got.

Finally, a standard triathlon distance in under 3 hours.

I first got into triathlon in 1998, when an older acquaintance of mine from my weekly swim sessions at Ateneo, egged me into joining an event in Subic. I’ve been acquianted with the concept of the sport only from scant TV sports broadcasts, and would have never ever imagined actually looking at the prospect of joining one. The sport struck me as rather intimidating and, in a way, self-indulgently masochistic. Who was I anyway – puny, everyday-ordinary waif that I was – to dare compete amongst titans and automatons? Besides, I didn’t even have a bike! But my colleague, riding on this hair-brained idea of his for whatever God-forsaken motivationthat he had, persisted on my joining and stepped up to sponsor me with some paltry funding and a lot of gab and BS. Needless to say, my initial foray into the multi-sport milieu was short of promising. My first event was a relay with an already experienced triathlete who volunteered to usher in a newcomer like me into the sport. He pounded away on his bike while I floundered in my swim and run. Soon afterwards, I moved on to doing solo races. My performances were quite pitiful at best, but the interest for the sport has apparently gotten to me. I endeavored in triathlon for a couple of years, but eventually inadvertently fell into a long hiatus when the bike that my older acquaintance procured for me out his sponsorship broke down into a state of permanent disrepair. It was only back in 2007 – out of some sudden renewed interest – that I got a new, much more triathlon-suitable bike and started racing again.

I’ve mostly joined standard distance triathlons – 1.5 km of swim, transitioning into 40 km of bike, before capping everything off with a 10 km run. For these races, my total time has always been past the 3-hour mark. So it was to my sweet elation when, during the Subic race last Jan 17, I finally crossed the finish line in under 3 hours... 2:49mins to be more precise. Many other guys still can still fly pass me and leave me in their dust. But to break my own personal time barrier was gratifying victory enough for me to bouy up my spirits and leave me thinking that I can still do better. Perhaps my former acquaintance’s hair-brained persistence paid off somehow.

Another cancelled flight due to a storm. So kicked off my anticipated trip to Cebu. Only recently did I have to put up with the nuisances of abrogated trips when I got stranded in Bangkok for two days on account of typhoon Ondoy wreaking havoc in Metro Manila. The only fortunate difference between that return trip from Bangkok and this Cebu flight is that this time, I didn’t have to endure the aggravation of bunking in the airport terminal for almost 48 hours just interminably waiting for a flight.

It was a long Halloween-All Saints weekend, and Che, my travel buddy, and I were eagerly looking forward to a two-nights stay at Cantabaco for some rock climbing with other friends. Given however the flight cancellation, Che and I would therefore have to settle with and maximize just an overnight stay.

We arrived in Cebu passed eight in the morning and from the airport headed straight to the van transport terminal to get a ride to Cantabaco. I had lived before in metropolitan Cebu for several years but never realized that just an hour’s drive away from the main metropolis was already an outback country of forested mountains and a highland terrain seemingly similar to that of the Cordilleras. Notwithstanding the cramped quarters of our vehicle, the scenery along the long, winding mountain roads made the ride rather pleasant.

Che and I arrived at our destination as we saw some friends of ours walking along the road, already heading out to the climb site. We settled down first at a nearby private house where we met up with our friend Eman and had some breakfast. The household, along with the other neighboring ones, was graciously accommodating the weekend’s contingency of rock climbers.

Cantabaco is a quiet place, similar to any other small countryside town. Seen from the veranda of our homestay was the gleaming white face of a distant limestone cliff.

At the climb site, we finally saw the usual familiar faces as well as new ones. Mackie, the weekend’s climb organizer still fresh from Thailand, welcomed us, as Che and I recounted to him our ordeals during our return to Manila from Bangkok. It seemed just several days ago when we were all enjoying ourselves in Krabi.

The climb site at Cantabaco was a spacious wall, stretching a few hundred meters across with a dirt trail running alongside. The levels of difficulty of the various climb routes seem to progress as one accordingly heads further up the trail to the upper sections of the wall. Mackie mentioned that several new routes have just been established for this weekend; thus we had plenty of options to keep ourselves pretty much preoccupied. By the end of the day, I have lead climbed 5 routes of satisfyingly manageable difficulty.

The evening socials were fun, as was the usual with the group that we were with, being charged with inane banter and non-sensical humor. Mackie told me that there was a route named ‘Oh Baby’ that he’d want me to try the next day, and visualizing the route based on how Mackie described it, I welcomingly said that I’d give it a try. Little did I realize though that Mackie just inclined me to bite off more than I could chew.

Starting off ‘Oh Baby’ may have been unproblematic enough, but the rest of the ascent was far less than straightforward or undemanding. Halfway through, I was already buckling down from the sheer strain of muscling my way up through difficult hand- and foothold placements. Too often I had to rest and dangle midway by my rope in order to catch my breath. My throat was already parched and the saliva in my mouth was already frothed from all of my huffing and panting. Several times, I thought about bailing out altogether, but the people down below kept egging me to finish the damn route. Gladly enough, after what Che later pointed out to be more than an hour on the wall, I finished the route, much to my and my companions’ relief. I asked a fellow climber what the difficulty rating was for ‘Oh Baby’, and sure enough, the figure that he gave me was beyond what I was accustomed to. I only climbed three routes on my second and last day in Cantabaco, as ‘Oh Baby’ already left me winded and pumped to take on any more routes.

We packed up at around 4pm and started waiting at the van transport terminal for our ride back to Cebu city to catch our evening flight back to Manila. The waiting line for a van was long as everyone was heading back to the city after the long weekend.

Cantabaco was something new about Cebu that I now know. While having dinner at Ayala Center before heading off to the airport, I got to wishing I had more time to spend in the province and in the capitol city. A lot has changed with the city with which I have grown familiar before. There were so many things about it that I perhaps missed. Perhaps I’ll come back sometime soon to do some catching up with it.

(see related photo album)

Bangkok was a hodge-podge of delight and distress. I came into the capital, keyed up with promises and warnings of the city’s virtues and vices.

Bangkok served only as a transition point during my stay in Thailand, as I was primarily headed to Sukhothai in the north and then down to Krabi in the south. On the first opportunity to tour around the city for a day, Che and I opted to visit the cultural attractions of the place, plotting our destinations on a city map we got from the airport and first heading straight to the Royal Barges Museum.

We decided to try out the city’s bus system, as we were already trying to scrimp on taxi fares. Getting directions was a bit tricky, as most of the people whom we asked hardly spoke any English. Even while on the bus, we jousted for any comprehensible information with the conductor and several passengers who seemed to be as disoriented as we were. Eventually though, one passenger assessed with conviction where we should get off, and Che and I finally made our stop. From our drop off point, it was tortuous walk through a labyrinth of cramped alleys before we made it to this huge boat shed by a riverway.

Through grated widows, I could already see the imposing outlines of what were the ornately-shaped prows of several boats, but the stark magnificence of the several Thai Royal Barges only became clear when I finally went in the capacious boat shed. The royal vessels, augustly well-preserved for state occasions, were richly ornamented with golden tiles and brilliant stones (probably not real gold and precious stones), and displayed along the internal periphery of the shed were other paraphernalia and memorabilia. I was just pulling out my camera from its bag when the man at the gate gruffly reproached me in his broken English that I cannot take any pictures. I countered that I’ve already paid my entrance dues of 100 Baht at the gate, but he said, as he was pointing to a sign posted at the bottom of the entrance booth, that it was another 100 Baht just to take still pictures. It was highway robbery, I thought to myself! And I deliberated for a while wether I was willing to fork over another 100 Baht just to appease the shutterbug me. Eventually however, my miserliness got the best of me, and I just contented myself with a disgruntledly disinterested tour of the place.

From the Royal Barges Museum, Che and I broke for lunch and proceeded afterwards to the Wat Phra Keow complex, where several of Bankok’s main royal and religious landmarks were found. The whole complex encompassed an entire city block, and outside its guarded walls, droves and droves of tourists were swarming in like flies. Several guys who appeared to look like guides directed us to an entrance gate, and inside the complex walls, more tourists abounded. The whole place was just teeming with them. The entrance fee to see the Grand Palace and the Emerald Buddha, the Thais’ most revered object of worship, cost 350 Baht, and again I was just not that psyched up to cough out that much dough for a few hours tour of a tourist-infested place. So Che and I decided to just stroll outside the complex and perhaps check out some other nearby, less-crowded attraction. Auspisiously (or ominously) enough, a street guide lured us into a conversation wherein he told us of some other places in the city that we can go see. The options he gave us were interesting enough that we took him up on his suggestions and readily got on a tuk-tuk that he hailed down for us.

The tuk-tuk driver was a lively, conversant fellow with very good English. He took us first to some monastery where Che and I visited some golden statues of Buddha. That first stop-over went well enough, and from there, the tuk-tuk driver proposed going to some jewelry exposition where we could legally get genuine stones tax-free. Thinking nothing much of it and despite that we were never really interested in such type of mechandise, Che and I obliged, and the tuk-tuk driver brought us to this jewelry store further inside the downtown areas of the city. We just perfunctorily looked around the shop, obliging the store clerks there who exhibited to us their collections and pieces of rubies, sapphires, and gold, but never making any committal accommodations. In the end, Che and I left with not a care for what we were shown.

Outside, we got back on the tuk-tuk and told the driver to take us to some other Buddhist landmark, but he however suggested that we take a look at another jewelry shop peddling duty-free goods. It was then that I remembered all the horror stories of various Bangkok scams that my friends told me before my trip. Alarm bells in my head started to blare red as the tuk-tuk driver persisted on us like a leech, in addition informing us how we could help him get some sort of fuel rebate from the stores. I quiet panic started to settle in me, and I kept thinking how I could possibly play out what I thought was a dire situation. I conferred with Che, telling her that we’d accommodate him this one more time but dispatch him in some way afterwards. Che agreed.

We went to the other jewelry store and stayed for not even more than three minutes. When we got out, we told the driver that we had to cut the city tour short as we just received word that our friends were already waiting for us at the bus terminal for our early evening trip to Krabi. I then unceremoniously handed him more than double of our pre-arranged fare, and Che and I just simply started walking off to get a cab. Fortunately for us, the tuk-tuk driver didn’t make much of an issue with it, and Che and I were soon on a taxi on our way back to our friends at the bus station.

* * * * *

Once back from Krabi, Che and I had another full day at Bangkok to wait out before our late evening flight back to Manila. We decided to head back to the Wat Phra Keow complex, this time to see the fabled 90-foot long, reclining golden Buddha at the Wat Po temple. We got off at the site, careful not to entertain too much any street guide who approached us. Tourists were still littered all around as Che and I navigated our way through the complex of temples and small buildings within the place. We first passed by several shrines before finally arriving at the Wat Po temple which housed the giant statue, and upon entering, what I saw was simply breathtaking. There lay in magnificent golden glory a colossal image of Buddha, stretched straight out on its right side, its right hand propping up the massive head. The interior walls of the temple were lined with rich filigree of deep burgundy, contrasting starkly with and highlighting the iridescence of the golden statue lying at the very center of the temple. The site was truly astonishing that though I was not Buddhist, I somehow had the overwhelmingly compelling impulse to drop down to my knees and bow down in prayer. People moved anti-clockwise around the statue, and at the end of the line, they dropped in bill donations in exchange for coins which they dropped into rows of receiving bowls. Throughout the temple resonated the din of coins clinking incessantly into clay receptacles.

From Wat Po, Che and I then proceeded to the Golden Mount, a hill on top of which was another among Bangkok’s many Buddhist temples. Atop of the mount, we had a commanding of the entire cityscape. It was already mid-afternoon, and to cap off our city tour before we finally start heading to the airport, Che and I then went for some souvenir shopping at the Chatuchak weekend market.

The Chatuchak market was a delightful bedlam of hundreds of stalls selling a mishmash of goods and merchandises ranging from clothes and apparel, furniture, food and spices, military surplus, and various curios. Che and I wound our way through the maze of shops and people, always keeping an eye out for any good find. Every nook and cranny was whirling with curious pieces and artifacts that an entire day wouldn’t be enough to fully explore all the sensory and gastronomic delights of the place. In the end, I ended up buying a pair of fisherman’s pants for myself and a sling purse for my girlfriend, while Che made off with some shirts and several bags of dried fruits. I never really thought that we’d stay long at Chatuchak as I was not really much of a shopping person, but the delight and exuberance of the place was really quite engaging that it was already dark when Che and I finally decided to head out.

Our time in Bangkok was quite a blast, and despite the sobering thought of heading back to the realities of work and the daily grind back in Manila, we were both eager to be going back home. But little did I know that I was not meant to leave Bangkok that day just yet. Upon arriving at the Suvarnabhumi airport, I was shocked to find that our flight was cancelled. Checking with the Philippine Airlines desk, we then found out that all flights back in Manila were cancelled due to some severe typhoon. I thought to myself that a flight delay should suffice rather than a complete cancellation, but I only learned in a while how severe the typhoon was when I received an SMS message from my mom telling me that Manila was at a complete standstill and that floodwaters have managed to enter our house. Never has our house ever been flooded before. Manila was then currently reeling under the onslaught of typhoon Ondoy.

The line of expectant passengers lengthened and soon enough, patience began to fray. It took hours and interminable inquiries and negotiations before people hoping to catch the cancelled flight started to disperse. Many rebooked. It was a Saturday, and Che, at best, managed to get us a confirmed booking for a flight on Monday evening, though we nonetheless decided to see if we could put ourselves in as chance passengers on any other earlier flight. As all our other co-passengers decided to head back to the city to get hotel accommodations, Che and I settled on sleeping over at the airport. Through my slumber, I could feel the insidious cold of the aluminum chairs on which I slept creep on my back, and I was only too glad when morning finally came.

Throughout the day, Che and I waited for any opening to fly back as chance passengers. But it was only in the evening that available seats became available. The problem is that there was a priority queue, and some passengers with booked connecting flights or those carrying upper class tickets were first checked in. Then a ticketing officer came to us and mentioned that there was just one seat left. She asked who between the two of us should go, and I, with uttermost despondency over the matter, told Che to go ahead. She was likewise upset with the situation, but I guess both of us understood that she had a bigger stake in getting back to Manila at the earliest possible time as she had to report for work at the office, while I still had all the free time in the world. So Che hurriedly checked in, bringing with her some of my baggage which I were to get back in Manila, and soon afterwards, I was left stranded for another night all alone in Bangkok.

In total, I spent around 43 hours just waiting for my flight back to Manila, and needless to say, all that time spent just idling around in the airport was despondently excruciating. Thoughts of the movie “The Terminal” kept flashing in my mind, and I fancied that this was what Tom Hank’s character might have felt as he involuntarily made the Los Angeles airport his unwished for residence. And as I sat at the pre-boarding lobby, awaiting my final boarding announcements, I took stock at all the experiences I had during my week-long stay in Thailand. My vacation in this country of exotic delights and distress was everything I had expected and not expected it to be. It sure was one hell of a ride!

I got a text message from her, inviting me to join a community rehabilitation project that she sponsored for Gawad Kalinga. I admired the novelty and munificence of the whole idea – how Marissa, herself a scion of the affluent and influential Floriendo clan – opted to spend her birthday repainting the houses of the less-than-well-to-do families who were badly struck by the recent Ondoy calamity. It was an opportunity for me to do something different as well.

Marissa pulled together a rather huge group to help out. There were around 30-40 of us, all from Marissa’s circle of friends. We went to the barangay of Bagong Silangan somewhere near the areas of Payatas and Batasan Hills in Quezon City, a rather inconvenient, hard-to-find, out-of-the-way place. The group arrived there together in a convoy of four vans, all of us wearing the same printed white T-shirt specifically designed for that day. Just by our appearance, many of us from the group conspicuously stood out as dressed-down bourgeoisies, and so I guess it was rather understandable for the locals there to be gawking at our party. But after some orientation and introductions, we were all nicely settled down and were soon at work with brooms, scrubs, paint rollers, and pails of newly mixed paint.

The town’s folk mentioned that everything was completely inundated during the Ondoy typhoon, as a nearby river broke its banks and water engulfed all of the houses, reaching far beyond the roofs. It was a good thing that no one perished, but the devastation wrought by the calamity was truly tremendous. It took weeks and several trailer trucks to clean away all of the muck and filth left in the typhoon’s wake. The chapel at the town center was cleaned up as much as the town’s effort could have allowed, but stains and encrustations of earth and dirt still clung on to all the posts and ceiling. They mentioned that the chapel’s walls and ceiling have to be torn down and rebuilt, as mud has infiltrated the internal spaces, threatening a possible collapse of the place.

I soon enough found myself quite immersed in the day’s task as I paid meticulous attention to avoid any slovenly workmanship. There was certain sentiment of completeness that came in knowing that I was doing my best for these people whom I didn’t know but with whom I shared a common bond of humanity. Around us, the community bustled as kids played in the central plaza while other folks watched and helped out in the repainting work. At the end of the day, the group distributed huge boxfuls of goodies for the kids.

We had an overall coordinator, a middle-aged balding man who was once a member of the PTA of Ateneo but who later on found his calling in doing community service with Gawad Kalinga. And what he told us at the start of the day’s activities rang true: It wasn’t really the repainting work that mattered; it was the immersion with the community, the simple act of being with them, hearing their stories, and letting them know that people are there to help that was important.

(see related photo album)

From Sukhothai, Che and I went back to Bangkok aboard a 5:30 PM bus, which arrived at the Mochit terminal at 12 midnight. There at the terminal, Che and I bunked on the rows of seats at the station’s main lobby, hoping to get some substantial amount of sleep. Come morning, we were to meet with other friends who were arriving from Manila and proceed thereafter to Krabi for several days of rock climbing.

Notwithstanding the hard lumpiness of the chairs on which I lay and the apprehension that some vagrant creep would steal from me while I was asleep, I was nonetheless able to snooze soundly enough. Che and I got up around 6:00 and, from Mochit, took a cab to the bus terminal which serviced routes to the more southern provinces of Thailand.

At the southern bus terminal was a commercial mall which was still just stirring to life as merchant stalls and boutiques were just about opening for the day. I noticed that throughout Bangkok (and I surmise throughout most of the country as well), there was never a dearth of 7-Eleven stores. Every other street corner was bound to have an outlet, and the southern bus terminal itself had two stores which were situated just within a stone’s throw from each other. I grabbed some breakfast at one of them, as many of the other food stalls within the mall were still not serving anything. A while after, I ventured to some kiosk serving coffee buns, and it was there that I finally saw Mackie coming up to me. At his heels were Allen, Pat, and Popsie. We were all finally together.

Our exchange of salutations was warm and effervescent, as we all recounted our different experiences coming into Thailand. Mackie, the most experienced climber and the lead man of the group got the bus tickets, while everyone else preoccupied themselves with settling down for the morning. The trip was not until 7:30 in the evening, and so we practically had an entire day to wait for our bus to leave. Che and I decided to explore Bangkok for the meantime, while the rest contented themselves to just idling the entire day inside the terminal. (I’ll reserve the story of our escapades in Bangkok for another blog entry.) Evening then came, and we all were finally heading out on a 12-hour road trip to the southern paradises of Thailand.

Ever since Makie mentioned the place during my initial forays into outdoor rock climbing, Krabi has held for me this enigmatic allure, conjuring up idyllic imaginings of paradisiacal white-sand beaches, extensive stretches of clean limestone cliffs, and lusty bohemian living. The province is located at the shore to the Andaman Sea and is touted in many of many internet searches as a getaway destination of outstanding natural beauty, being lined by about 154 island paradises. Perhaps its most popular, if not infamous, claim to fame is Ko Phi Phi Leh island which was the set for the 2000 Leonardo DiCaprio top-biller, The Beach.

From the main provincial center, a land-locked pedestrian town with little attraction, we headed off to Ao Nang which was some 30 minutes away by songthaew (public passenger pick-up vehicle). The shoreline boulevards of Ao Nang were a swanky showcase of seaside resorts, restaurants, souvenir shops, parlors, cafés, and boutiques. Locals plied their wares and services, tourists promenaded and strutted, scooters and mopeds buzzed, the sun beat down, the sea sang its invitation, and my head was lost in the poshness, the grit, and the heady sensory lure of the entire place. On the waters along the beach were long-tail boats waiting for passengers to board. Wading into knee-high chops, we hauled all our gears into one of them and then set off to nearby Ton Sai beach.

Ton Sai was like a place that came right out from the pages of a book. It was a backpacker’s haven, with dirt roads inland, cheap lodging, open-air bars and restaurants, and the usual population of foreign dirt-baggers, Rastafarians, wanderers, and hippies. We booked ourselves at the rather inaptly named Mountain View Resort, and, after briefly settling down, headed off for a good lunch near the beach at this trail-side eatery owned by the “chicken lady”. From there, it was just a short walk to Dum’s Kitchen, our climb site for the day.

I could clearly see why the place was such a rock climber’s Mecca. Everywhere were sheer limestone rock faces with beautiful stalactite and stalagmite formations. And with over 700 bolted routes ranging from the easy ones for beginners right up to the seriously wicked ones for the hardcore fanatics, there was enough in the place to keep any climber busy for years.

My first few climbs were somewhat pathetic. Mackie mentioned at the end of our first day that I have lost a lot of whatever climbing endurance I had before, and I regretted that I did. It has been more than a month since I’ve last done any form of climbing, whether in our outside the gym, and my lack of exercise easily made itself apparent. The intimidation of my first climb in this new place, in the presence of terribly formidable rock jocks, also got the best of me as I tried to keep both my nervousness and excitement at bay. But the following days demonstrated how I have not completely lost everything and how quickly I could get my mojo back, as I found myself sooner-than-later lead climbing more respectably formidable routes.

We made our rounds in Ton Sai, as well as in the neighboring locales of Railay and Phra Nang, hitting the walls, soaking up the scenery, and savoring the merits and vicissitudes of a vagabond’s life. At Phra Nang beach, Mackie pointed to us several caves which sheltered curious wooden carvings in the exaggerated shape of what was undoubtedly a male’s genital rod. Scattered around an altar of melted candles were these upright phalli of various sizes, from something as small as a paper weight to something as tall as our 5’4” friend Pat. A placard at the altar explained that these penile structures were offerings by fishermen to a female sea deity who lived among the caves. Whatever the logic was for these offerings, I’m sure they all kept the sea deity happy.

I originally planned only a week-long stay in Thailand, thinking that just a few days of climbing in Krabi would be more than enough for me. Apparently, it wasn’t. I wanted to climb more walls, and the last day of my stay in Krabi brought me some separation anxiety. Che and I were heading back to Bangkok to catch our return flight to the Philippines, while Mackie and the rest would be staying further on in Krabi for about a month. The morning before Che and I were to finally leave, a brief storm hit the beach where the group was negotiating some high routes. I thought to myself that now would probably be a good time to do some flight rebooking, but the idea of forking out a big chunk of my travel budget just to pay for penalties got the better of me. The weather did eventually somewhat calm down in the afternoon, allowing Che and me to catch a boat ride back to Ao Nang.

It was drizzling in Ao Nang, and the sky was a somber shade of ash. I wished I could have stayed longer, and already, my mind was racing with thoughts about going back. Krabi was an entirely overwhelming adventure playground. There were yet so many other amazingly exotic destinations to be explored and so many more outdoor delights to be experienced.

Halfway through the course, I was already doubting if I made the right decision to join these guys for a long bike out. It has been almost two years since I’ve last logged a hefty distance on my bike, and that last one wasn’t even anywhere near the distance that I was doing now.

It’s been quite some time since I’ve last joined a triathlon or engaged myself in some sustained, serious training for such a sort of endeavor. After a few years of joining several races, I eventually went into a slump, falling into the contentment and tedium of a sedentary existence, only managing to drag myself into brief workout episodes from time to time. It’s only now that I’m finally trying to get back into the regular workout sessions and the entire healthy, active lifestyle for that matter. After maybe more than a year of taking a more laid-back routine and indulging myself in more ordinary diets of fried foods and sugary snacks, I thought that it was perhaps high time to finally get back into shape. The whole inactive lifestyle was starting to get rather unnerving.

I’ve been constantly asking Ias to inform me if he and his group of fellow-AMCI members, who have taken a rather sudden interest in multi-endurance sport events, are having any long bike excursion soon. Fortunately enough, one came up for the weekend, and I had my old triathlon bike, one that I had consigned to a bike shop for several months with the thought of finally disposing of it, all spruced up and readied. It was nice to be reunited with that bike.

We were more than ten in the group that weekend. I started out quite strongly, managing to maintain a strong pace and keep up with the stronger members of the group. The root took us from Bacoor, Cavite to the town of Naic, some 60-70 kilometers away. I thought to myself that I was doing pretty well, until that is we reached our turn-around point which consisted of a rather long stretch of serious uphill climbing. I did manage to survive, mashing and grinding on the pedals as I brawned my way up. I really was never a good climber. But I never realized how much all that effort sapped all the strength in my legs until we were all finally heading back. This time, I could hardly keep up with any of them, and I had to content myself in lagging behind everyone else.

The end of the ride couldn’t have come any sooner. It was already sometime past noon, and my thoughtswere already racing towards what’s to be had for lunch. I didn’t really feel that sore after the ride, despite the few cramp attacks I had during the return trip, but I did feel so wacked out that by the time I got home in the late afternoon, I slumped straight into bed and slipped into a 14-hour coma.

(see related photo album)

I came into Thailand with misgivings about the country. I’ve heard horror stories of hapless tourists being lured and trapped into all sorts of scams and rip-offs, some innocuous, while others dastardly horrific. So I was only too wary of every person I met, right from the moment I landed in Bangkok. The fact that most of the people I encountered could hardly speak comprehensible English all the more aggravated my paranoia. Good thing though I was travelling with a companion to alleviate my worries.

It was my first time in the so-called “Land of Smiles”, and I was there purposefully for some outdoor adventure. I was mainly to join some rock climbing friends in the southern province of Krabi, but they were still to arrive several days after. So I and my companion, Che, decided to first hie off north to Sukhothai, which I have always wanted to visit for its ancient temple ruins.

We arrived in Bangkok late evening and decided to check in some hotel to pass the night away. The morning after, we headed off to the Mochit bus terminal which serviced bus trips to the northern destinations of the country. The ticket cost us around 360 baht each and already included with it some in-board snacks and a meal stub for claiming repast at one of the stopovers. Quite an agreeable deal given also the easy driving conditions and hospitable in-board service. The only qualm I had with the trip though was the in-board video showing off Hollywood films dubbed completely in Thai.

The trip took six hours, and we arrived at the Sukhothai bus terminal around mid-afternoon. Information on hotel accommodations in the town was available at the terminal, and from the various brochures and flyers we collected, Che and I decided to check out the Sila Resort which was a short ride away. The resort was really just a small collection of nicely built small cottages crammed into lot hidden somewhere away from the main thoroughfare. Upon our arrival, Che and I were so warmly greeted by the resort staff who were so graciously accommodating and very eager to please. The rooms were cozy and spik and span, and more importantly affordable. For 600 baht, Che and I got a very handsome twin-bed wooden cottage, with air-conditioning, running hot water, cable TV, and free Wi-Fi internet.

Che and I left our stuffs at our room and asked the front desk for directions to the Old City. Patty, one of the staff who accommodated us, very welcomingly gave us a map and showed us how to get there, aside from further offering us information about other places to visit nearby. The warm and amiable disposition of the entire staff of the resort, their impeccably hospitable service, how they always greeted everyone with a smile, how they diligently attend to their guests needs, were all quite overwhelming for me. I thought about how mistrustful I was when I came in to Thailand just the previous day, but I was simply easily disarmed by the graciousness of the people that I have encountered so far.

I thought about taking up the idea of going to the Old City on bike, as the resort also offered bike rentals. But Che inexplicitly disclosed to me that she really was not very confident riding on two wheels. So we decided to just head off on foot to the main road where we could get a ride to the Old City. But then again, the resort staff was quick to offer us a complimentary ride on one of their hired tuk-tuks.

Sukhothai was the capital of the first Kingdom of Siam in the 13th and 14th centuries. The great civilization which evolved in the Kingdom of Sukhothai absorbed numerous influences and ancient local traditions, the rapid assimilation of all these elements forging what is known as the 'Sukhothai style'. The ruins of the old capital, now 12 km outside of present-day Sukhothai’s main modern district, showcase a number of awe-inspiring monuments, illustrating the beginnings of Thai architecture. The old city center was surrounded by three earth walls and two moats that formed a precinct. Temple sites were not only inside the walls but dispersed as well throughout the surrounding areas.

We got to the Old City sometime in the late afternoon. The whole place was a wide open area of Buddhist temples (or wats), man-made lakes, and gardens, but was cordoned off into three sections, for each of which one has to pay an entrance fee of 100 baht. Che and I thought that we’d just be short-changing ourselves by paying 100 baht for just the few remaining hours of the day, so we thus opted to just explore the freely accessible areas outside the Old City walls and return the next day for a full-day’s trip of the entire place.

Seeing the remains of the Old City was truly amazing, and I thought how majestic the entire place would have been when everything was still intact and the civilization that have wrought this hallmark of Southeast Asian culture was still flourishing. Images of the revered Buddha depicted in various stances and many of which, I noticed, are facing East highlighted many of the old temples which clearly showed Khmer architectural styles that are so characteristic of another equally astounding Southeast Asian cultural marvel, the Angkor Wat of Cambodia. The evocative ruins of Sukhothai conjured up images of material prosperity, artistic greatness, and Buddhist piety. Indeed, historians remember Sukhothai much for its art and architecture as for its political achievements.

At the Wat Si Chum outside the northern wall of the Old City sits the Phra Achana, a monumental stucco-over-brick figure of Buddha in the subduing Mara posture – its legs folded in the lotus position, its left hand resting palm-up on its lap, and its right hand curled over the right knee – a Buddhist iconography common in many of the other wats. Entering the narrow passage of the mondop that housed the 15-meter-high statue, I could not help but feel a swelling urge of reverence for the image that lay before me, as if I was so inextricably drawn to pay it homage. My whole surrounding just bespoke of stillness and reflection, murmuring subtle summons and quiet thoughts, turning my head to contemplations of life, religion, personal aspirations, the philosophical, the mundane, and the sublime. The attraction of the place was unshakably palpable.

The evening before we left, Che and I dined in one of the sidewalk eateries in the main town. Now, I could say that I was savoring truly authentic Thai cuisine. I had pad thai served with shrimps and garlic while Che tried out some curry dish. The whole street was abuzz, and if it weren’t only for the unfamiliar language that I was hearing all around me, it felt that I was in some quaint provincial town back home in the Philippines. Sukhothai has been truly remarkable.