I’d been staring at flights to Southeast Asia for months. You know that feeling when your browser history is just tabs of Skyscanner and Google Flights and you’re refreshing prices at 2 AM? That was me. The Philippines kept popping up Palawan, Cebu, those absurd chocolate hills in Bohol. But what finally made me hit ‘book’ wasn’t the curated Instagram shots. It was this random Reddit thread where someone said the Philippines is “beautifully chaotic.”
Sold.
Touching down in Manila felt like getting punched with humidity. The kind where you step off the plane and your shirt just… gives up. But there was this energy coming through the terminal a mix of motorbike exhaust, street food and possibility. I grabbed my pack and headed straight for the ferry terminal. Manila’s wild, but I wasn’t here for the city chaos. I wanted islands. Volcanoes. Those things you see in documentaries and think “that can’t actually exist.”
Spoiler: they do.
Getting Around: Tuktuks, Ferries and Questionable Jeepneys
Right, so let’s talk about Philippine transport. It’s an experience.
The tuktuk became my default ride within about six hours of landing. These things are everywhere loud, colorful, running on what I can only assume is pure optimism and two-stroke fuel. My first ride was in Cebu City, driver’s name was Carlo (or Carlos? The engine was too loud to confirm). He had a sound system that would make nightclubs jealous and drove like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Manila Drift.
“You want scenic route or fast route?” he yelled back at me.
“What’s the difference?”
“Scenic route, we see nice things. Fast route, we don’t die.”
We took the scenic route. Barely.
Why Tuktuks Beat Every Other Option
- They’re honest about the chaos – No pretending it’s a smooth ride. You’re getting rattled and you signed up for it.
- Drivers know EVERYTHING – Want to know where the best adobo is? They got you. Need to avoid tourist traps? They definitely got you.
- Surprisingly fast – When traffic hits (and it always hits), these things squeeze through gaps that physics says shouldn’t exist.
- Dirt cheap – I’m talking $2 for a 20-minute ride through absolute madness.
Night drives were different though. Less chaos, more atmosphere. The roads between towns turn into these dark corridors with random streetlights and you’d pass through villages where the only light came from small shops selling San Miguel and phone credit. It felt like driving through a movie set, except the movie was real life and I was just passing through it.
But tuktuks weren’t even the wildest transport option.
The River Ferry Situation
I took this jungle river ferry to reach some inland spots near Bohol. The boat itself calling it a “ferry” is generous was basically a wooden raft with an engine and a corrugated tin roof. The pilot stood at the front like he was George Washington crossing the Delaware, except Washington probably wasn’t chain-smoking Marlboros and steering with his foot.
The river was brown (not dirty brown, just jungle sediment brown) and winding, with palm trees leaning in from both sides like they wanted to see who was passing through. We’d float past locals washing clothes in the shallows, kids jumping off rope swings, someone fishing with a net that looked handmade from the ’70s.
Nobody was in a hurry. That’s what hit me back home, every ferry runs on a schedule tighter than airport security. Here? We left when we left. We arrived when we arrived. Someone brought a chicken onboard. Nobody questioned it.
The Chocolate Hills: They’re Real and They’re Ridiculous
I’m just going to say it the Chocolate Hills in Bohol are stupid. Stupid beautiful. Stupid impressive. Stupid in the way that makes you stand there going “how is this not Photoshop?”
Getting there meant a road trip that took half a day, but I wasn’t complaining. The roads in the Philippines have this rhythm to them smooth pavement for a bit, then suddenly you’re on gravel, then back to smooth, then there’s a random water buffalo crossing and everyone just… stops. Waits. Nobody honks. The buffalo takes it’s time.
When I finally reached the viewpoint (there’s a watchtower thing you climb), I wasn’t ready.
What Nobody Tells You About the Chocolate Hills
The photos don’t capture the scale. There are 1,268 of these hills. Someone counted. They’re cone-shaped, covered in grass that turns brown in the dry season (hence “chocolate”) and they roll on forever like someone spilled a bag of Hershey’s Kisses across the countryside and forgot to pick them up.
But here’s what got me: the silence. Up on that viewpoint, all you could hear was wind through the grass and maybe a motorbike somewhere in the distance. No tour groups screaming for selfies (I went early pro tip). Just these ancient geological formations that have been sitting here for millions of years while humans figured out fire and agriculture and TikTok.
I sat up there for probably an hour. Just looking. Thinking about how weird it is that this place exists and most people have never heard of it.
There’s supposed to be a legend about two giants who fought here and threw rocks at each other and these hills are the leftover boulders. I’m not saying I believe that, but standing there? I wasn’t NOT believing it either.
Off-Roading on Volcanic Sand: Bad Decisions, Great Stories
This is where things got properly wild.
I met these guys Dutch backpackers, German couple, two Filipinos from Manila at a hostel in Legazpi. Someone mentioned there were jeeps you could rent to go driving on the slopes of Mount Pinatubo, on this volcanic ash desert that looks like the surface of Mars.
“Is it safe?” the German woman asked.
The Filipino guy his name was Miguel just laughed. “Probably not. You want to go?”
We went.
The jeep was a beast. Open-top, roll cage, tires that looked like they belonged on a monster truck. These things are custom-built for volcanic terrain and they need to be because the “roads” (and I’m using that term very loosely) are basically dried riverbed mixed with ash and rocks the size of your head.
Miguel drove. I rode shotgun. Everyone else piled in the back and held on.
The Pinatubo Ash Desert Experience
What you need:
- Sunglasses (the ash reflects like snow).
- Something to cover your mouth (ash dust is no joke).
- A driver who’s done this before (not optional).
- Low expectations for your clothing (it’s getting ruined).
The landscape was alien. White and grey ash stretched out in every direction, with these eroded gullies cutting through like someone had dragged claws across the earth. In the distance, you could see other jeeps kicking up dust clouds, looking like something out of Mad Max.
We’d hit these sections where the ash was so soft that the jeep would sink in, wheels spinning, engine roaring. Miguel would gun it, we’d fishtail, someone in the back would scream-laugh and then we’d burst through onto harder ground.
“This is insane!” the Dutch guy yelled over the engine.
“Yeah!” Miguel yelled back. “Good insane or bad insane?”
“I’ll let you know if we flip!”
We didn’t flip. But we came close twice.
The weirdest part? Halfway through, we stopped for lunch. Just pulled over next to this enormous boulder, broke out sandwiches and warm Coke, sat in the ash like it was a beach. Miguel told us about the 1991 eruption how it displaced thousands of people, how the landscape was completely reshaped, how his dad remembered the ash falling in Manila 60 miles away.
“My father said it looked like the end of the world,” he said, staring at the horizon. “Now we drive jeeps on it for fun.”
That’s the Philippines in one sentence, honestly.
The Crater Lake That Shouldn’t Exist
Mount Pinatubo’s crater lake is one of those places that breaks your brain a bit.
Getting there meant hiking. Not the casual “let’s take a nature walk” hiking proper trekking through lahar fields and stream crossings and terrain that kept changing texture every twenty minutes. Our guide, a local named Ramon who was probably in his 60s but moved like he was 30, kept up a running commentary the entire way.
“You see this?” He pointed at a massive boulder wedged in a dried riverbed. “1991 eruption. Threw this rock three kilometers.”
Three kilometers. Just casually yeeted a boulder the size of a minibus halfway across the landscape.
The hike took about two hours. The last section was steep switchbacks cutting up the crater rim, loose volcanic rock that made every step feel like you were climbing a very angry Stairmaster. My calves were screaming. The Dutch guy from the jeep adventure was somehow still with us and he looked like he was regretting all his life choices.
Then we crested the rim.
When Geography Gets Dramatic
The lake sits in the crater like someone poured liquid turquoise into a bowl carved by explosions. The water is this insane blue-green color that doesn’t look real too vibrant, too perfect. The crater walls rise up on all sides, streaked with mineral deposits in yellow and red and brown and the whole thing feels like standing inside a wound in the earth that’s slowly healing.
- Crater diameter: 2.5 km.
- Lake depth: Approximately 600-800 meters (changes seasonally).
- Water pH: Around 5.5 (acidic but less than before).
- Formation: Post-1991 eruption, filled by rainwater over years.
- Temperature: Cool year-round despite volcanic activity.
Nobody talked for a few minutes. We just stood there.
Ramon broke the silence: “My village was over there.” He pointed vaguely east. “Gone now. Under that.” He gestured at the ash plains we’d crossed.
What do you even say to that?
“You come back here often?” I asked.
“Every week. Bring tourists. But also…” He trailed off, looking at the lake. “It’s different now. Beautiful different. Not better. Just different.”
We sat on the rim for lunch more warm Coke, some rice and dried fish Ramon had packed. The lake was perfectly still. No wind reached down into the crater. A few other hiking groups were scattered around the rim, tiny dots of color against the grey rock.
I tried to imagine this place during the eruption. The explosions. The ash column reaching into the stratosphere. Now it’s a lake. Nature just does that sometimes takes apocalypse and turns it into something beautiful. Doesn’t ask permission.
Swimming With Something That Could Swallow You Whole
Right, so. Whale sharks.
I’d heard about Oslob before coming to the Philippines this place where you can swim with whale sharks, the biggest fish in the ocean, in shallow water. Some people say it’s unethical because they feed the sharks to keep them around. Others say it’s fine. I’m not here to referee that debate.
What I will say: being three feet from a 30-foot shark changes something in your brain.
How This Actually Works
You show up at dawn. The boats go out early because that’s when the sharks are around, drawn by the locals who’ve been feeding them small shrimp. There’s a briefing: don’t touch the sharks, don’t use flash photography, stay at least four meters away (spoiler: the sharks don’t know this rule).
Then you’re in the water.
The sea was calm that morning, this pale green color near shore. I had a snorkel, no fins, just floating in water maybe fifteen feet deep. For a few minutes nothing. Just other tourists bobbing around looking hopeful.
Then I saw the shadow.
It came from deeper water, this massive shape that materialized like a submarine rising. The pattern on it’s back white spots on grey-blue looked like someone had spilled paint on a canvas the size of a bus. It’s mouth was slightly open (they’re filter feeders, constantly scooping water) and I could see inside. Just this massive cavern of a mouth moving through the water like it was nothing.
My brain did that thing where it forgets how to process size. This shark was bigger than most cars. It passed within six feet of me close enough that I could see individual spots, scars on it’s skin, remora fish hanging off it’s belly like hitchhikers.
Then it was gone. Vanished back into deeper water.
I surfaced, gasping.
“DID YOU SEE THAT?” Some Australian girl nearby was losing her mind. “THAT WAS MASSIVE!”
Yeah. Yeah it was.
Things Nobody Mentions About Whale Sharks
- They’re surprisingly graceful for something that big no splashing or thrashing, just smooth gliding.
- The spots are unique to each shark (like fingerprints).
- They don’t care about you at all you’re just another piece of ocean they’re swimming through.
- The mouth is terrifying and beautiful at the same time.
- You will forget to take photos because your brain is too busy processing the fact that you’re swimming next to a SHARK THE SIZE OF A BUS.
I saw three more sharks that morning. Each time that same adrenaline spike the shadow appearing, the slow approach, the moment it passes and you’re just floating there wondering if that actually happened.
By the time we headed back to shore, I was exhausted. Not from swimming from the constant awe. That’s a real thing. Awe is tiring.
The Wildlife You’re Not Expecting
The Philippines has these tiny primates called tarsiers. I’d seen photos before coming they look like Gizmo from Gremlins had a baby with an owl. Huge eyes, impossibly small bodies, fingers that look too long for their arms.
Finding them meant going to a sanctuary in Bohol with an actual biologist guide (her name was Dr. Reyes and she was NOT messing around about conservation).
“These are not pets,” she said before we entered. “They’re endangered. You stay on the paths. No flash photography. No loud noises. They’re nocturnal, so we’re already disturbing their sleep by being here during the day.”
Got it. Respect the tiny tree goblins.
The sanctuary was this shaded forest area, humid and quiet except for cicadas. We walked single-file along a narrow path. Dr. Reyes would stop every few minutes, point into the branches and whisper: “There. Three meters up. On the trunk.”
I’d stare. See nothing. Stare harder.
Then suddenly there. A tarsier clinging to a branch, perfectly still, eyes closed against the daylight. It was the size of my fist. It’s fingers wrapped around the branch with this delicate precision, like it was holding something precious.
“They can rotate their heads 180 degrees,” Dr. Reyes whispered. “And their eyes are actually bigger than their brains.”
“That seems like a design flaw,” the Dutch guy muttered.
“Evolution doesn’t grade on logic,” Dr. Reyes said.
Tarsier Facts That Sound Made Up But Aren’t
- Each eye is the same size as it’s entire brain.
- They can’t move their eyes they have to turn their whole head to look around.
- They’re one of the smallest primates on earth.
- In captivity they sometimes get so stressed they commit suicide.
- They hunt insects at night by leaping between trees like tiny Batman.
We saw four tarsiers total that day. Each one felt like spotting a mythical creature. They’re so alien too big-eyed, too fragile-looking, too weird to be real. But they’re real. They’ve been around for 45 million years, surviving everything evolution threw at them.
Dr. Reyes said they’re threatened by habitat loss and the pet trade.
“People see photos online and think they want one,” she said. “Then the tarsier dies in three weeks because it can’t handle captivity. This happens over and over.”
She said it matter-of-factly, but you could hear the frustration underneath.
Hiking Through Jungle That Wants to Eat You
The jungle hikes were their own category of adventure. Not manicured trails with signs every hundred meters these were actual jungle paths where you had to watch for roots, vines, random holes in the ground and snakes (probably).
Our guide for one hike (different guy, named Jun) had a machete that he used approximately every five minutes to clear overgrowth. The path would just… disappear. Then Jun would hack at some ferns and suddenly there was a path again. This went on for hours.
“How do you know where to go?” I asked.
“I grew up here. I know.”
That was the entire explanation.
The humidity was next-level. My shirt was soaked through within twenty minutes. Everything was green every shade of green that exists, plus a few that probably shouldn’t. Sunlight barely reached the ground, filtered through three layers of canopy. You could hear things moving in the undergrowth but rarely saw them.
At one point Jun stopped, held up a hand.
“Monitor lizard,” he whispered, pointing ahead.
I looked. Saw nothing.
“Where?”
“There. On the log.”
Then I saw it this four-foot lizard perfectly camouflaged against the bark, tongue flicking out to taste the air. It watched us watching it. Nobody moved for maybe thirty seconds.
Then it casually slithered off into the ferns like we weren’t worth it’s time.
What Jungle Hiking Actually Feels Like
You know how in movies, jungle hiking looks adventurous and exciting? In reality it’s:
- 70% sweating.
- 15% trying not to slip on muddy sections.
- 10% wondering if that sound was a snake.
- 4% actual beautiful views.
- 1% questioning your life choices.
But then you’d come around a bend and see something like the view from above endless forest canopy rolling into mountains, mist hanging in valleys, no buildings or roads anywhere. Just trees and sky and the knowledge that humans are pretty small in the grand scheme of things.
Jun would let us stop for water breaks. He’d point out plants: “This one, good for stomach problems. This one, very poisonous, don’t touch. This one, makes good tea.”
How did people figure this out? Trial and error? That’s a lot of error to risk.
Kayaking Through Limestone Cathedrals
Palawan’s underground river is famous. It’s a UNESCO site, everyone knows about it. What they don’t put in the brochures: you have to kayak through narrow limestone passages where the rock hangs so low you’re ducking your head while paddling.
The water in the lagoon was that transparent green color where you could see straight down twenty feet. Fish swimming in the shadows. Coral formations. The kayak glided over all of it like we were floating on glass.
I paddled toward this gap in the rocks an opening maybe six feet wide, dark inside. The guide (girl named Maria, probably the most competent human I’ve met) went first, her kayak disappearing into the shadows.
“Just follow!” she called back. “And don’t hit the rocks!”
Helpful.
Inside was a different world. The rock walls rose straight up on both sides, carved by water over millions of years into smooth curves and sharp edges. Sunlight came through cracks above, creating these shafts of light in the darkness. The water turned from green to black not dirty black, just deep black because no light reached the bottom.
Every paddle stroke echoed. The only sounds: water dripping, kayaks scraping occasionally against stone, Maria up ahead giving directions that mostly amounted to “left here” and “watch your head.”
Then the tunnel opened into a cave chamber.
The ceiling was maybe forty feet up, covered in stalactites dripping mineral-laced water. The walls had these bands of color white, red, brown where different layers of rock were exposed. Somewhere in the darkness, bats were chittering.
“People don’t come here often,” Maria said, her voice echoing weirdly. “Too hard to reach.”
We floated there for a few minutes. Just existing in this space that felt older than civilization. Older than humans, really. Just rock and water doing what they’ve done for epochs.
Then we paddled out, back into sunlight that felt aggressive after the cave darkness.
When Culture Hits Different
I stumbled into the cultural performance by accident. Wasn’t planning it just heard music coming from this outdoor venue while walking back from dinner. Smoke machines were going full blast, stage lights cutting through the haze and dancers were mid-routine in traditional costume.
The performance was called something like “FilNation” or “Open Nation” I couldn’t quite read the banner through all the fog. But the dancing? That I could see.
These weren’t the carefully choreographed tourist shows where everyone smiles on cue and hits their marks. This felt raw. The dancers moved like they meant it sharp movements, traditional steps mixed with modern hip-hop elements, costumes that blended indigenous patterns with contemporary styling. The lead dancer wore this vest with geometric tribal patterns, moving through the smoke like she was appearing and disappearing between worlds.
I stood at the back of the crowd, sandwiched between locals who were filming on their phones and a couple of backpackers who looked as surprised as I was to have found this.
“What is this?” one of them asked a local woman nearby.
“Cultural foundation,” she said. “They perform traditional dances. But, you know, new style. For young people.”
That tracked. The music was this fusion traditional Filipino instruments layered over electronic beats. Gongs and synthesizers. Bamboo percussion and bass drops. It shouldn’t have worked but absolutely did.
Why This Mattered More Than Tourist Shows
The audience wasn’t tourists. It was locals families, teenagers, older people who watched with this quiet pride. Nobody was checking their phones (except to film). Kids sat on their parent’s shoulders. When a particularly complex dance sequence finished, everyone erupted.
This wasn’t performance FOR us. We just got to witness it.
The show ran for maybe forty minutes. By the end, the smoke machines had created this thick fog bank across the stage and the final dance happened half-visible through the haze silhouettes and light and movement that felt more like ritual than entertainment.
When it ended, the crowd dispersed quickly. No standing ovations or curtain calls. Just people heading home on a random Tuesday night after watching their culture being kept alive.
The Music Festival Nobody Told Me About
Three days later, I ended up at an outdoor music festival in some town I can’t remember the name of (my notes just say “near volcano, amphitheater thing”).
The venue was this natural amphitheater curved stone seating built into a hillside, stage at the bottom, open sky above. By the time I arrived (late afternoon), the place was already packed. Families spread out on blankets, vendors selling street food, kids running around and a band soundchecking onstage.
I found a spot on the stone steps about halfway up. Perfect view of the stage and the crowd.
The music started at sunset. Local bands, mostly rock, pop, some traditional folk music with modern arrangements. The crowd knew every word to songs I’d never heard. Everyone sang along, phones out filming, that collective energy that only happens at live music.
But what got me was how different this felt from Western music festivals. No one was hammered drunk (some drinking, sure, but controlled). Families stayed the whole night. Old people sat next to teenagers. The vibe was less “party until you can’t walk” and more “community gathering that happens to involve music.”
Between sets, vendors would come through selling balut (fertilized duck eggs I tried one, it was… an experience), grilled corn, these sweet purple rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves. The smell of charcoal grills mixed with cigarette smoke and tropical flowers someone was selling near the entrance.
I sat there for hours. Watching strangers become a crowd, then become something else this temporary tribe united by rhythm and language and place.
As the headliner started their set (some Filipino rock band that was apparently huge the crowd went absolutely wild), I looked around. The stage lights lit up faces in the crowd, this sea of people all focused on the same thing and behind us the volcano loomed in darkness, this massive presence watching everything.
That volcano Mayon, I think had been visible from multiple spots during the trip. Perfect cone shape, often wrapped in clouds, always there in the background like some ancient guardian. Local guides talked about it casually: “Oh yeah, it erupts sometimes. Not right now though.”
Comforting.
Market Chaos and the Best Worst Decisions
The markets in the Philippines are… a lot.
I’m talking sensory overload from the moment you walk in. Vendors yelling prices, motorcycle taxis honking outside, fish being gutted on tables, fruit stacked in impossible pyramids, someone carrying what looked like an entire bolt of fabric on their head and smells ocean fish mixed with ripe mango mixed with diesel exhaust mixed with incense from a nearby stall.
That photo captures it this vendor balancing wrapped goods that probably weighed more than most people, navigating through the crowd like it was nothing. The market had this rhythm to it. Everyone knew their role. Vendors called out to potential customers, shoppers haggled over prices, porters moved impossible loads through impossible spaces and tourists (me) stood there trying not to get trampled.
I bought:
- Some dried fish I never ate (still in my bag months later, probably a biohazard).
- Fresh mangoes that were genuinely the best I’ve ever tasted.
- A woven bracelet from an old woman who quoted me twice the local price and I paid it anyway because haggling felt wrong.
- Street food from a cart that looked questionable but tasted incredible.
The Street Food Gamble
Everyone says “don’t eat street food in Southeast Asia unless you want to spend three days in your hotel room.” I ate street food constantly. Lived dangerously.
My favorites:
- Isaw (grilled chicken intestines) – Sounds horrifying. Tastes like smoky, chewy heaven.
- Banana cue – Deep-fried plantains covered in caramelized sugar. Heart attack in stick form.
- Halo-halo – Shaved ice with beans, fruit, jelly, ice cream and confusion. Somehow works.
- Fresh calamansi juice – Like lemonade but better and more citrus-y.
- Chicken adobo from a street cart – Made by someone’s grandmother, probably. Perfect.
Did I get sick? Once. For like eight hours. Worth it.
The market also had this section with live animals chickens in cages, fish in buckets, something that might have been a small pig. A vendor was selling eels from a plastic basin. The eels kept trying to escape. The vendor kept catching them and tossing them back. This went on the entire time I was there.
“You want eel?” he asked me.
“I don’t know what I’d do with an eel.”
“Cook it!”
Fair point, but no.
The Roads That Became the Journey
Somewhere between destinations, the travel itself became the point.
That photo empty road cutting through fields, mountains in the distance, sunset light making everything gold was taken during a random drive between towns. We’d just stopped. No particular reason. The driver pulled over, turned off the engine and we all got out to look.
The silence was massive. No cars. No people. Just wind through rice fields and the sound of our own breathing.
“This is what I miss when I’m in Manila,” the driver said. His name was Eddie, mid-40s, drove like he was personally offended by speed limits. But in that moment he was just standing there staring at the road like it held answers.
“How often do you come out here?” I asked.
“Not enough.”
We stood there for maybe ten minutes. Nobody suggested leaving. The sunset kept getting better clouds turned pink, then orange, then this deep purple-red that doesn’t have a name. The road stretched toward mountains that looked painted on.
Then Eddie said, “Okay, we go,” and we piled back into the van and kept driving into the dark.
Road Trip Observations
- Philippine roads switch between Highway perfection and “how is this legal” with no warning.
- Water buffalo have right of way (unspoken rule, but everyone follows it).
- Roadside shrines appear randomly small altars with candles and flowers marking where someone died.
- Gas stations also sell fried chicken (genius).
- The speed limit is a suggestion that Eddie personally rejected.
Night driving was different. The roads got quieter. Small towns appeared as clusters of light, then disappeared. Jeepneys passed going the opposite direction, lit up inside like mobile living rooms. You’d see families crammed in there, kids asleep on their parent’s laps, heading home from somewhere.
I did a lot of thinking during those drives. The kind of thinking you can only do when you’re moving through darkness in a place that’s not home, with nothing to do but watch the road and exist.
Leaving Felt Wrong
The flight out was from Manila. Same airport, same humidity slap when you walk outside, but different somehow. Leaving changes how you see a place.
I’d been in the Philippines for three weeks. That’s not enough time to know a place not really. You scratch the surface, see the highlights, miss the depth. But it’s enough time to feel something shift.
The islands had gotten into my head. The chaos and the calm. The way locals would go out of their way to help even when language barriers made everything complicated. The food. The landscapes that looked Photoshopped but were just… real. The fact that a country with 7,000+ islands somehow felt coherent despite being scattered across an ocean.
At the airport, waiting to board, I scrolled through photos. Whale sharks and tarsiers and crater lakes and markets. Tuktuks and jeeps and kayaks and volcanic ash. Dance performances and music festivals and roads that went nowhere special and everywhere at once.
My flight started boarding.
What the Philippines Taught Me (Without Trying)
- Chaos isn’t the enemy – Sometimes disorganization is just life happening and you roll with it.
- Tourist spots can still be meaningful – Yeah, Oslob is controversial. But swimming with whale sharks still mattered.
- Local transport is the best way to see real life – Tuktuks beat taxis every time.
- Nature doesn’t care about your comfort – And that’s exactly why it’s worth the trek.
- Small moments matter more than big plans – That random sunset stop? I remember it more than half the “must-see” attractions.
The flight took off over Manila Bay. The city lights spread out below millions of people living lives I’d barely glimpsed. Then the islands appeared in the darkness, small shapes outlined by coastline lights, scattered across black water like someone spilled stars.
I thought about Ramon showing us his buried village. The tarsier sanctuary guide fighting to save something fragile. Eddie staring at that road like it was the last beautiful thing on earth. The whale shark that passed six feet away and didn’t care I existed.
The Philippines isn’t easy travel. It’s hot and chaotic and things break down and plans change and you’ll definitely eat something questionable at 2 AM from a street cart. But that’s part of it. The rough edges make the smooth parts matter more.
Would I go back?
Already looking at flights.
Travel Tips I Wish Someone Had Told Me:
- Bring cash (lots of places don’t take cards).
- Download offline maps (cell service is spotty).
- Book volcano hikes in advance (they fill up).
- Don’t pack light clothes you care about (everything gets dirty/sweaty/ruined).
- Learn basic Tagalog phrases (people appreciate the effort).
- Island hopping takes forever (embrace it).
- The travel time between places is always longer than expected.
- Say yes to random invitations (best experiences come from accidents).
- Try the street food (with reasonable caution).
- Talk to drivers/guides (they know everything).
Rough Budget Breakdown:
| Category | Daily Average (USD) |
| Accommodation (hostels/budget hotels) | $15-25 |
| Food (mix of street food & restaurants) | $10-20 |
| Transport (tuktuks, jeepneys, ferries) | $5-15 |
| Activities (tours, entrance fees) | $20-40 |
| Total per day | $50-100 |
Note: This is budget travel. You can spend way more or way less depending on style.
The plane leveled off at cruising altitude. I closed my laptop, reclined the seat, closed my eyes.
Three weeks ago I’d been staring at flight prices at 2 AM. Now I was heading home with volcanic ash still in my backpack, a camera full of impossible landscapes, and this feeling that I’d barely scratched the surface of something huge.
7,000 islands. I’d seen maybe ten.
The Philippines had plenty more to show. I’d just have to come back.
