Hell in Paradise

I am posting this essay of mine because we are running a bit low on submissions as of late. If you have an essay you would like to submit, please use the link at the top of the page.

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“Fairways and Bluewater Boracay! Get out!”

Our driver, the smiling jockey of the gaudy yellow electric cart we just rode in, gestured towards the massive gates of the resort. He had a huge beer belly. His Red Horse Beer t-shirt was soaked with sweat. I knew immediately where the belly came from. My hand brushed the peeling paint of our transport as we got out and grabbed our suitcase. I put an arm around Flora protectively, and a quick look back ensured Mike and Annie made it off without tripping over their sandals. Something deep inside was bothering at my mind, nipping at the edges. This something had no face, but I could tell it needed to be addressed before my overthinking ruined the whole trip.

The four of us hurried to a waiting van with the resort logo stuck to the side, hoping that a hot shower and food could be found somewhere within. We were exhausted. The day started early and dark, with a five-hour drive to Caticlan. Then a wait to get on the busy ferry at the port. We then survived an hour-long boat ride across the rough seas to Boracay proper, where the waiting electric cart took us through the first two stations until we arrived at ours - hot, hungry, and more than a little bit fatigued. The resort was made up of separate mauve and stone buildings. Ours seemed to be on the far side of the massive compound.

On arrival, we took a steep set of cement stairs down to the lobby at the bottom. The suitcase bumped along behind us, musically hitting every stair like a note on a xylophone. As we sidled up to the counter a feeble old man in a loud tropical button-up stepped out of the mirrored elevator to our left, trailed by a young Filipina. She was hardly older than a teenager. He looked hangry. Hungry and angry. His face was an alarming color red. He spat more than spoke as he looked back at his companion.

“I don’t care if you’re hungry, I don’t like the food here!” he grumbled, waving his hand around the spacious lobby.

“But I don’t want to go all the way to the beach just to eat, they have free lunch here!” The pretty Filipina pleaded in broken English. She looked desperate to eat - if you could judge by the miserable look on her face. She wore a bright golden sundress and straw beach hat on her head.

“Tough! I’m paying for this, so we do what I want!”

Looking away, not wanting to embarrass the Filipina any more than she already was, I wondered how they were related – husband and wife? Such matches were common in the Philippines as many older men came here specifically looking for young women to marry. In fact, Flora and I are eighteen years apart in age. Friends and family gave me grief after announcing my move to marry in the Philippines because everyone assumed it was to bag a younger woman. That could not have been further from the truth. I came here to escape the toxic environment in America. Her age was a point of contention when we met, but once we got to know each other, that ceased being a problem. We were in love despite our age difference. We vowed to make it work, even if people thought me some kind of pervert with a mid-life crisis.

If the old man and Filipina were married, the gap was more pronounced, maybe fifty years. The Filipina couldn’t have been more than twenty, and the grumpy man must have been at least seventy. Glancing over to Mike to see if he had seen this scene play out, he appeared to be busy getting us checking in, flashing plastic. Something about the pair unnerved me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It only added to my discomfort and overthinking. It was almost as if the couple were more like Flora and me than unlike us. We stopped the elevator and wheeled the bags inside. The feeling from before grew stronger, something felt more acutely here in paradise.

As the numbers changed from floor to floor, I couldn’t help but wonder how much flack this guy got for being with a girl who was practically a teenager. He didn’t look like he cared at all. I did. It was then I recognized the feeling that had been nagging at me all day. I’d received hate comments a few days before after writing and publishing an essay about marrying Flora, a younger woman from the Philippines. What would the would-be feminist mafia that attacked me so viciously have said about the pair, fifty years apart in age? We were only eighteen years apart, but dozens of rabid women took away my “male feminist” card away because they said I was an asshole and an abuser.

I still don’t know why. And still the feeling in my chest grew.

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According to the website, “Fairways & Bluewater Resort in Boracay Island offers nothing less than world-class service and facilities. In here, we don’t just give pampering a new definition. We also let you mix business and pleasure during your holiday.”

There were five floors. Mike and Annie were on the fifth and Flora and I were on the third. Mike had graciously absorbed the cost of the resort. We could never have hoped to pay for something so extravagant and ritzy. Our room was spacious, with two pillow-soft king size beds and a huge sliding glass door covering one wall opening out to the resort’s golf course. The manicured greens gave way to rolling hills and jungle. The view was spectacular. The brown stone-tiled bathroom was bigger than our bedroom at home in Iloilo City. The bathroom had one other thing you don’t see often in the Philippines – a shower with unlimited hot water. We raced to strip off our sweaty clothes to see who could make it to the shower first. It ended in a tie. So we shared the shower, which led to an afternoon of splashing around and steamy marital naughty time. I’d hoped our first vacation away from the kids would lead to intimacy but wasn’t expecting it to happen as soon as we arrived.

After washing away our efforts in the steamy shower and soaking for some time, we got out our phones and sent a text to Mike and Annie. We suggested we go and get seafood. Figuring we were on an island, it was bound to be fresh caught that morning. After dressing in t-shirts and shorts, we slipped into our sandals and headed to the lobby, flush-faced and hungry. What Flora didn’t know was this whole time my mind was in turmoil, and no amount of seafood was going to make it behave like we were on vacation. Experience taught me that when my brain was in a state of fuckery like this, nothing could change it. The published story had caused a stir online. Not for the last time, I wished that I hadn’t read the comments before leaving on vacation.

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We took another electric cart to station one, this time lime-green with a happy blue sailboat covering the side. Our driver said was the freshest fish in Boracay was to be found there. We stopped at the entrance to a gated town square, and tread lightly through a labyrinth of twisting narrow streets. We wove past dirty hostels and ladies of the night, to a small, simple resto with turquoise plastic chairs and tables. The amazing thing was the massive cooler displaying all types of colorful fish, shellfish, giant shrimp, prawns, Philippine lobsters, and tasty scallops. We could order by the kilogram and it would be cooked right in the restaurant and brought to our table.

“What do you want Mike?” I said pointing at the local who was scooping green shells into a small bucket to weigh.

“I want a fish. A big fucking fish!” He was eyeing the orange Lapu Lapu, and the colorfully-dressed lady scooped that up as well.

We ended up getting steamed Talaba(Oysters) and sour Sinigang made with the large shrimp. We added a legendary-sized Pusit (Squid) and the Lapu Lapu, both grilled to perfection. The waitress piled our table high with the seafood, and the rickety plastic bowed under the weight. To say the dinner was mind-blowingly delicious is an understatement.

It was better than anything any of us had ever tasted.

During dinner, when the conversation lagged because everyone was happy with mouthfuls of fish, I couldn’t help but think about the couple at the hotel. My mind swirled around the day’s events. It gave me a headache. I’d judged them reflexively without knowing their story and was ashamed. Flora and I hated it when people did that to us. Maybe the old man married her because he wanted a companion in his golden years. It doesn’t always have to be about sex. Maybe she agreed to marry and take care of him in exchange for a better life for both her and her family. Many of the men who come to the Philippines to marry also take care of the family of the bride, knowing how close the family units are in the archipelago. Hell, maybe they are in love? Is it so terrible for two people to come together for their own reasons? Maybe the real problem is gossipy people like me who can’t keep their noses out of other people’s business? After dinner, we walked the beach at sunset to station two and watched the fiery orange sun disappear into red and purple on the horizon. It was gorgeous and awe-inspiring. We were spent and satisfied with our full stomachs when we retired for the night.

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“WAFFLES!”

I smelled the doughy aroma before spying them on the decadent buffet. The spacious and sunny room smelled of bacon and maple syrup. Flora and Annie had already started piling steaming spoonsful of savory beef Tapa onto their plates. This was their country. The dark-haired women knew the niceties of the Filipino buffet, while Mike and I had to take a moment to see how the whole thing worked. At fiftyish, we took one look at that delicious buffet and were tweens again. It didn’t take long until we had heaped our plates with eggs, waffles, and fresh fruit. We made a quick trip back for steaming coffee and iced pineapple juice, then hunkered down, hardly looking at the gossiping women or each other.

But I noticed the same pale old man arguing with the same teenaged Filipina from the day before. “This food is garbage!” he yelled, “Find me something I can eat!” Noticing the matching gold wedding bands the pair wore, I realized this Filipina was really this nasty and privileged old miser’s wife.

There, I did it again - I judged! Maybe he was sick? Maybe mornings were not a good time for him. Maybe we happened to see him at his worst. Yes, he was grouchy, but why did I assume the cruelest of him because he was with a young woman who could have been his granddaughter? One look around the room told me everyone else was doing the same. Most people stared with their mouths hanging open. It made me wonder what people thought of Flora and I. Although we look closer in age for having spent the last twelve years together, there was still a noticeable difference. What evil things were people thinking about us? I was starting to see that this was what had been bothering me since we stepped foot in Boracay, but my mind could still not let it go. I gave the grouchy senior a last look, and then minded my own business. The old man just ignored everyone and seemed oblivious to the drama unfolding around him.

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Our group left to head to the beach. We would board a multicolored banca boat for a tour around Boracay island. We headed to Puka Island, but soon turned the thrashing boat around because the open water was too dangerous to traverse. We instead dropped anchor for a quick swim in the cool tropical water. The only one of our group of four who wanted to swim in the blistering heat of the day, I dropped in the clear salty drink and paddled. Pale and chubby, my body bobbed like a cork. The cool water soothed the beginnings of sunburn starting to appear on my bald head. Soon tired from treading, I climbed the splintered ladder and shivered. Sitting in the stern next to the colorful life jackets, my skin soaked up the warming rays of the afternoon sun.

Then we sailed to the opposite end of the bay. When crossing the deep open water south of the island, we hit huge, frightening waves. They sprayed us every time we mounted a new swell. Flora gripped her orange life jacket, and we held each other tightly while the boat thrashed violently. Over the roar of the waves and their splash crashing against the hull, Flora was screaming “I don’t want to DIE!” I wanted to scream too, but only managed an open-mounted grunt that was soon filled with brackish water. When we finally made it to shore safely, we’d had enough of banca boats.

With enough excitement for one day, we headed back to the beach and stopped at a quaint little café for Mango shakes. The theme of the café was tropical, with bamboo covering the walls and ceiling. We again saw the old man, walking angrily with his long-suffering Filipina trailing behind. Her long jet hair blew wildly in the breeze as she tried to keep up. He had a scowl despite the pristine white sandy beach and the gorgeous setting sun.

“But I want a beer!” he pouted like a child.

“Get one! Don’t be so cheap!” the Filipina was clearly getting tired of the complaining and entitlement.

“But it was like five dollars! I refuse to pay that much!”

“We’re on vacation Harold, live a little!”

Shaking my head, my mind was in turmoil. I didn’t act like Harold, but wondered if the people who were sitting at the café tables thought the same things about me that they were clearly thinking about him. Why was this bothering me so much? Truthfully, little thought went into this topic in my time in the Philippines. Eleven years. But sitting here in the sparkling sun, with the press of people around us, I couldn’t stop overthinking. I couldn’t help but wonder at the thoughts of the young and old walking mindlessly along the beach. If people in the comments of my essays on the internet think I’m an evil pervert, what about these people? My brain wouldn’t stop ruminating.

The couple soon moved to where we couldn’t hear them any longer. Out of sight, out of mind. Harold wasn’t going to ruin our day; we were in paradise. Keeping up with this train of thought would ruin the trip for us. So far, the group were unaware of my turmoil, and I vowed to keep these negative thoughts to myself. We finished our mango shakes and headed back to the hotel – another bright electric cart zooming through the narrow street. After a shower and change of clothes, it was dinner at the swank restaurant in the resort. The girls played it safe and ordered Filipino dishes while us guys ordered massive burgers, a pizza, and beer.

This would prove to be our undoing.

“I don’t feel very good, but I’d love to jump in the hot tub,” I told Mike, burping and clearly uncomfortable.

“Maybe just for a while. The heat will help with the bloating.”

After bobbing around in the steam for a while, neither Mike nor I was feeling well, so we both headed to our rooms. My stomach felt dangerously full. On separate floors of the hotel that night, we suffered through chills, cramps, and diarrhea. Chilled to the bone, Flora sat me to steam in the hot shower for most of the night. Around 5 am, I fell into a fitful sleep. The sun shining through the sliding glass doors startled me awake for breakfast not long after.

It was the pizza that did us in. I learned Mike was still on the toilet this morning and would be late to breakfast.

We were not feeling much like eating. The buffet was piled with French toast, pancakes, and sausages that mocked me as we nibbled on fruit and drank black coffee. We noticed, as sad as our state was, we were still having a better time than feeble old Harold with the young Filipina. They seemed to be following us around. After a whole day, they still couldn’t seem to find anything to eat.

Seeing the couple brought up all the uncertainty from the day before, and I felt worse for having to deal with the poisonous thoughts. Should we really care what other people thought of us? Up until that essay, I didn’t care, but the comments bothered me greatly. Up until that point I’d seen myself as an advocate for women. Now, this whole group of them thought me an aging pervert, who somehow tricked my young wife into marrying me to satisfy my unnatural desires. Maybe it was the poisonous pizza, but I just wanted to go home. There we could hide away from the knowing stares of the judging people around us.

Even in paradise, if you want to be unhappy, you will find something to be miserable about. Even though grateful to be in such a beautiful place with people who loved me, I was now as, if not more miserable than Harold and his young wife.

After breakfast, we had to decide if we wanted to stay another day and try to salvage what could have been a disaster. The trip was fun, but getting sick, even in paradise, put a damper on the vacation. We didn’t feel up to a long day of travel six hours back to Iloilo City. And I was walking around in a daze with a frown on my face, thinking people were judging us.

We would have to find another hotel because we didn’t have a reservation. The resort wanted more for another night than we were willing to pay. We jumped on our phones and soon found something a little more in our price range. The we hopped another electric cart to our new digs for the night. The rooms were nowhere near as plush and ritzy as our last resort, but for one night it would do just fine. It had an air conditioner and a shower and was a little more at the level to which we were accustomed.

Later that afternoon, Mike and I recovered. We wanted to spend our last night in paradise on the beach watching the most famous sunset in the Philippines. The ladies found a spot in the sand, and we left them chattering away to walk in the rolling surf. As the sun dipped to the horizon, a thousand brilliant colors lit up the sky. We busied ourselves taking pictures and marveling at the sight of so much grandeur. As we watched the last of the sun drop below the horizon into darkness, it occurred to me that I’d spent much of this trip in my head. Instead of enjoying the company of friends, the food, and the sandy white beaches, I was overthinking and worrying. Seeing Harold and his young wife brought up feelings I’d kept buried, and instead of either talking about them to my companions or forgetting the angst for another time, let it ruin my mood. Does anyone have control over what people thought of them? It just goes to show, you can be in paradise and still believe you’re in hell. The old man wasn’t having a good time despite being in one of the most picturesque places on earth, and neither was I. The idea that maybe a few people didn’t like me sent me over the edge. On the outside it was a vacation, but on the inside, I was more miserable than Harold ever was.

On the way back to the hotel, Flora and I talked.

“Babe? Do you think I’m a dirty old man? I asked, my arm around her waist, walking past the bright lights of the noisy restaurants and bars along the boardwalk.

“Yes, of course! But you are MY dirty old man.”

“But do you ever wonder if people think less of you because you’re with an old man?”

“Ugh! I never think about it, and damnit, you are not that old!” I could tell she was losing patience with my questions.

“You know I love you, right?”

“I love you more, now shut up!”

We left Boracay the next day, and the best few hours were the last few, walking the beach with my best friend as the sun set in a kaleidoscope of color and light, and spending the rest of the night with the woman I loved. Who cares if a few people didn’t like that we had an age difference? Between us there was love and an understanding that life is precious. We couldn’t waste it pleasing others. The next time we step foot in Boracay, I will leave the overthinking at home, because there is nothing worse than being in paradise but feeling like you are in hell.