Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 1. Misread

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CHAPTER 1: MISREAD

The bloom of light danced around the tip of my hat. A straw hat made of rye; it seemed fashionable. It was a gift from a friend whom I had met on one of my birthday trips. I was in St. Barts with a bunch of friends and family, sailing on a yacht for two weeks. I don’t remember who told me, but whoever it was said that wearing a hat this size would be preferable under the sun. Makes sense? Maybe. Although it would be more of a nuisance with how big it was. But that kind of stuck with me. Having a signature look would mean being recognised from a distance.

I gazed upward and aimed to search for any traces of the skyline. A magnificent streak of hues met the cumbersome orange; the sun’s almost up, and I’ve been negligent in my usual routine of observing the passengers from this trip.

I’d usually be up and about, eye-searching and skimming the roster of people on board The Hiligaynon, ready to form an opinion as to whose foreigner’s streak—a term I’ve coined from people having an unpleasant attitude when overseas—I’d have a stupendous time dealing with. Not that it matters since I’m a part of the crew. Patience and loads of patience belonged to the hustle. But it doesn’t leave much to the imagination when a foreigner implores the compassion and kindness of everyone when their entire baggage crams up the entire yacht, taking up every space imaginable. Or when someone feels the need to be important enough to complain about a missing drone, that turns into an unwarranted search of everyone’s things to find the gadget. Our last voyage left much to be desired; there were so many privileged turds on that trip. I was hoping this one wouldn’t become a headache. It was the last thing I had in mind before returning to New York to deal with matters of an urgent nature.

Returning my gaze to the 80-foot yacht, I descanted the details of the passengers to myself. The yacht was too far away for me to notice anything alarming. But their silhouettes and spritely images were still noticeable. The large, cumbersome woman struggling to get down on the boat was noteworthy. Her smaller-framed fiancé was a bit of a hassle when he carried her buttocks over his shoulders for some emotional support. Clearly, he struggled as they hoisted her down the stairs.

Though the line behind her didn’t seem to mind. Most of them were too busy on their cell phones, recording everything. From a crew member holding onto their bags to a group of shirtless men heaving to offload food cargo onto another boat behind the ferry to men walking on the sidelines transferring jugs of water for the encampment, everything was fascinating in the eyes of the tourists.

Everything was a visceral curiosity waiting to be recorded on their phones and posted on social media. One of them was even doing a live vlog of the tour, narrating whatever procedural drama her camera could capture. It was fascinating.

Everyone was in a rush, diluted by the urgency and haste of everything non-essential, where everyone and everything were slowed down by time. Serenaded by the tokay geckos as their crackle bounced through every part of the forest, their low staccato eerily sounded like a chorus of baritones. The symphony of the crickets as we neared the shore ensured that the land was nearby. The whistling of the wind from two mountainous rock formations etched between the crevices of a narrow waterway signalled a form of greeting. I flicked the cool water; a school of parrot fish was swimming below the boat. The turquoise-clear waters were definitely inviting. And in that sliver of orange light coming in to greet us, paradise was waiting.

It was a picture-perfect postcard moment. The ones you send to your parents or loved ones when you’re off to a vacation destination: a jump shot in front of the Eiffel Tower, a nod upwards to the humongous Corpus Christi, a mystical walk in the Great Walls of China, or an homage to the flights of stairs found in the Sydney Opera House.

This was a moment captured with veneration. Seeing this pristine beach, the clear blue waters, the sand as white as snow and as fine as dust, and the palm trees shrouded by patulous forest dense enough to convey the feeling of calm and serenity—none of the passengers seem to understand the memo. No one wanted to take it all in. Everyone had a discerning observation to freeze everything in time while out of the moment. Except for one.

He was at the back of the line, gazing out into the open seas. Zooming in closer to understand this oddity, I pulled up my camera and zoomed in to get a closer look. I snapped a candid photo, checked the shot, and saw a man whispering silently to the wind, pleading for something. His mouth was barely closed and not that open to say anything remotely audible, I assumed. Not a single one noticed him. But perhaps my camera froze something in time. A memory worth recalling for him, perhaps.

David, a local teenage deaf guide, paddled the small boat as it pulled us further away from the yacht and closer to the shoreline. And with the other passengers being ferried by the two chase boats, I checked my watch and was surprised that we were on time. 6 a.m. sharp and on schedule. This was indeed a first.

Thirty minutes in, a voice from a megaphone huddled with the group.

"We’ll be staying on this island por pibe nights, and then we’ll proceed to the resort por da remaining pibe days. Por the ones who didn’t take the Pitongpulo island resort package, you’ll be taken back to the yacht and back to Puerto Princesa," explained Kulas to the crowd, one of the more senior guides, more senior than I was. A miniature man, well built, with very tanned and long white dreads, walked over to where I stood and asked me, "Hindi ba tayo iikot sa sagada? Extend ba to nang 2 days?" (We’re not circling the sagada? Will this be extended for 2 days?)

The blonde curls tucked in my mane rested inside the hat. I turned to face him as I checked the details of the trip on my iPad and said, "Ah… hindi, sampung araw lang itong tour. Hindi to yung fifteen-days," (Ah… no, the tour is only ten days. This isn’t the fifteen days) as I began holding onto my straw hat from a sharp gust of wind.

My accent sounded very local. But I didn’t look like someone who’d be considered a native. My blue eyes and blonde hair were a dead giveaway. I was fluent in Tagalog, but my typical whiteness always betrayed me. Living in Palawan for ten years helped me acclimatise to the locals. No matter how much I spoke perfect Tagalog, I’d always be foreign in the eyes of the locals. However, they may see me as a foreigner, but I’m treated as one of their own. In fact, I was born here in the Philippines. Having dual citizenship made it easier to transition to this country. And visiting Palawan since I was a child, and spending my summers here made it all the sweeter that I’d end up in this paradise I call home.

I faced the crowd and made my introductions. "Good morning. I’m Damien. I’ll be one of your senior guides for this trip. I’ve lived here for a decade, so you can trust me despite looking like this." The crowd laughed at the notion of a Caucasian being vehemently more knowledgeable than the brown-skinned locals. This was probably the part of the world where being white was considered a detriment. "Feel free to carry your things down to the huts and rest easy this morning. At lunch, we’ll have a boodle fight. I’ll explain later what that means. But for tonight, there’s a bonfire and some local music to cheer the spirits."

The crowd clapped and roared, and they were soon preoccupied when Mariel, the only female crew member on the H.M.S. Tours, stepped in to guide every passenger to their rented vacation huts or villas. And then the last remaining chase boat scuttled onto the shore. They fetched a man holding a jar with a backpack and a huge suitcase as he hauled it in the sand; it was too exhausting just looking at him. It didn’t help that he looked flustered with sweat dripping down his forehead, and his green orbs scrunched into battling the heat. I gazed down and said, "Tulungan na kita diyan?" (Let me help you with that?)

"Sorry?"

"You don’t speak Tagalog?" I said.

"Do I look like I should?" said the shorter man, eyeing the location as he struggled to hold on to his jar. His skin was lighter than your typical Filipino. Noticing mine, I look more tanned than him. He was mixed, as the locals would say. Part Filipino, part something. The strength of his half-blood lies in the emeralds of his eyes. It had taken me aback the longer I stared into his eyes. Those very green orbs and his jet-black hair were such a stark contrast, while his orbs peered around, looking for something else. The accent was familiar. Definitely British.

He swiped his forehead and took out a thick white cloth to smear all over his face. Several of his long lashes were smudged. I winced at how hard he’d wiped at his own face; the poor guy must be dying from the humidity.

"I, er—do you need some help with that?" I said, insisting. He seemed desperate for help. "That looks heavy."

"Thanks. But I’m good."

There was a moment of silence. I wasn’t sure if it seemed like I was blocking his path, but the way he stared at me made it seem like I was. "Er—ok. Alright then." I scratched the back of my head and thought of something else to say. "By the way, I’m Damien. I’ll be—"

The man scoured the huts from a distance as he walked further and left me behind. Not concerned with how some guests may appear rude, I sighed and trailed in behind the group.

Everyone had already settled into their huts and villas. A group of Swedish male tourists came bustling out of one of the bigger villas that were part of the VIP package. They were laughing and giggling like high school boys. They carried the drunk (or drugged-out) groom to the master suite. The villas have a master suite with two to four adjoining rooms, depending on their tour package. They had to put something in his drink, drugging their friend, for he was seasick. Last night, the groom was vomiting for an hour until the drinking began.

One of them, the brunette with an impeccable smile, flashed his pearls as I was heading over to one of the admin huts. I returned the kind gesture and smiled back. I was hunched down unloading my belongings in a hammock outside the hut when, from the corner of my eye, I sensed him staring. I was about to turn around to ask if he needed help with something. But one of his friends pulled him over for a quick laugh and returned to their group.

"Did you get enough sleep last night?" asked Ryan, the chef tasked with making all the meal prep—also a good friend. He’s a Le Cordon Bleu-trained chef who speaks French, Tagalog, Swedish, Spanish, German, Chinese, and Korean. It was difficult to find a chef who spoke several languages, and I’ve never heard him speak any of the languages he’d posted on his resume. But he’s been with us for almost eight years. And he’s the only crew member I bunk with on every trip. He never snores. With the other guides, Kulas, Manny, Jerome, and David, Ryan usually slept like a baby. And that’s how I prefer it.

I nodded sideways and answered him, "No." I turned on the air conditioning and closed the door. "I couldn’t sleep when there was too much noise. Last night there was some partying—or what sounded like it."

Our rooms were as basic as your 4x4 white-walled room. The only amenities the communal admin huts had were air conditioning, two beds (or sometimes bunk beds), and a guitar on the side. They had built all the modern amenities in the huts and villas.

"You should’ve slept below deck. I was waiting," teased Ryan. He’s an okay-looking guy, for sure. But... I was too tired to play poker last night.

He frisked his shorts for a towel, went over behind me to wipe the sweat off my back, and lifted my arms to dry my sweaty armpits. "There you go, babe," he said, throwing the towel in my face. I laughed and shook my head. He’s always expected my moods and always knows what to say at the right time. The one thing the two of us were certain of was that he was straight, I’m his employer, and we’re friends. Period. Plus, he’s not really my type.

I walked into the corner to get my packet of cigarettes inside my bag and said, "What time’s the roll call?"

"In about 5 minutes." Then his face was wrung in panic. "Shit. I forgot about the lobster bisque." He ran outside. Quickly sliding into his slippers, he dashed to the kitchen as I followed him out and muttered, "You never change." I slipped a cigarette between my lips and tossed myself on the hammock. Puffing a cloud of smoke, I waited for the roll call to happen in the square.

"Greg Wallace?"

"Here."

"Matty George?"

"Here."

"Etienne Claudette?" asked Mariel, looking at the crowd as she waited to cross the name off the list. "Is there a Claudette here? Miss Claudette?" She scanned the area. No one raised their arm to claim. And then she noticed the mild whispering, like when the homeroom teacher spots the two students exchanging letters or doing hand signals in the back. She began pointing at a group of boys and girls chatting away, and asked, "Is there a Miss Claudette in this group?"

"Oui oui," answered the girl, busily talking to a guy. "It’s me." She giggled and continued her prattle in French.

The moment Mariel touched her ponytail, she was pissed. Flagging a huge smile as she said in her sing-songy voice, "Ok, ma’am. Next time, we should all listen to the roll call because your name designates where your group will be sleeping."

I grinned at the thought of a five-foot woman dragging the hair of one of the French tourists to keep them in line. One thing I learned was that Filipina women will nurse you back to health after they cut you. So never piss them off. It was a lesson learned the hard way when she walked out on a group who’d asked her to babysit them, thinking she was their personal maid ready to answer at their beck and call. I had to throw them off the island and refund their remaining trip. After that, we had a talk, and knowing how sweet Filipina women are, she promised to stay by my side with the promise of a raise.

She then called out the last one on her list. "Albert Mathersen?"

The guests were accompanied by the busboys to their corresponding abodes, depending on their package tour. 5 days of yacht adventure, plus a five-day stay on the island, nets you around $10,000. For the VIP package, it’s around $30,000. The VIPs were handled by a personal assistant separate from the group—or what I called the stress-free package. Before you imagined getting a drink, a bottle of water, fresh coconut juice, or a mojito were served right in front of you.

"Mr. Albert Mathersen," called out Mariel. Her head swivelled like a sentry, looking for anyone to raise an arm. She didn’t want to embarrass the only person dawdling in the vicinity, so she called out the name while walking closer to the person in question.

I spotted the same man from earlier, staring in the distance—the view of the beach was still empty. I wondered what he was looking for. Seeing as he’s the only person in the middle of the square, it only made sense that she’d tap his shoulder for him to come back to earth and be in the moment that he’s in paradise. Flicking my cigarette to the ground, I moved lackadaisically closer, hoping to eavesdrop.

"Mr. Albert Mathersen?" asked Mariel.

"Yes," said the man. "I’m sorry. Yep. That’s me," assured the man, sounding as if he’d been interrupted.

"I’m sorry about the mix-up. It seems you were supposed to be on a different boat tour," said Mariel, reading her tablet. "This tour was paid for about 2 years ago. When you had it rebooked, the price was lower. So, our system matched you with our luxury yacht package instead of the 3-day El Nido tour—which shouldn’t have happened." Her eyes crinkled at the information she was reading. "Wait for a while, sir; there seems to be a drastic mix-up."

Meanwhile, I was pretending to carry some potted plants back to the villas along with the workers, who did the same as I kept a close ear to their conversation. David saw me. Several handcrafted bracelets on his arm jiggled as he began signing.

(What are you doing?)

I dropped the potted plant on the ground and signed back. (Just shut up and don’t tell anyone about this.)

(Who am I going to tell it to? A palm tree?)

(Oh yeah. You’re deaf.)

He rolled his eyes. (I’m telling Kulas what you’re doing.)

(Please don’t tell him!) I signed off with my hands clasped together. (Don’t tell him. He’ll be mad if he sees me doing hard labour. You know he’s very strict.)

He pondered for a moment. (What’s in it for me?)

I tilted my head, thinking of something. (I’ll treat you to some Isaw once we get back to the city.)

He jumped up in the sand and smiled. Then it occurred to me. Shit. I haven’t told him I'll be going to New York. He’ll be greatly pissed if he learns that I’m leaving town. Bobbing my head back to their conversation, what the man said intrigued me.

"So what happens next? Is there a boat that’s going to bring me back to this island tour you mentioned? Where’s that—El Nido?"

"Well, there isn’t one available until tomorrow morning."

"Ok. That’s settled then."

"But," said Mariel, about to apologise for the mistake or inconvenience. "Er—the problem is, er, there are no more available huts or villas for you to stay in for the night. Since you technically didn’t pay for this trip..."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, sir, the only available one is a Kubo."

"A ku-bow?"

"Yes."

"What’s a ku-bow?"

"It’s a hut made of, er—how do I say this?" Her hands became animated. "It’s made of wood and bamboo strips." And then she closed her eyes as if reading a Wikipedia entry. "The bahay kubo, also known as payag in the Visayan language, is a type of stilt house indigenous to the Philippines. It often serves as an icon of Philippine culture. The house is exclusive to the lowland population."

"OK. I don’t need to know if this information is missing."

Sorry, sir. You make me nervous."

"Then what’s the problem?"

"It’s in a remote area of this island."

"That doesn’t seem to be much of an issue."

Mariel started wriggling. Her polite gesture turned into a grimace in anticipation of a possible freakout. "There’s no, er, ventilation."

"What do you mean?"

"There’s no air conditioning."

And then it happened. "WHAT!" screamed the man. He wiped his face with a white cloth in the middle of the blistering heat. "You expect me to sleep there tonight in this weather?"

"But it gets cold at night, sir."

"Great! Just bloody great."

"I’m really sorry about this."

I had to step in. I nudged Mariel to the side and grabbed the man’s hand for a handshake. "Hi. I’m Damien. I’m one of the senior guides—"

"—aren’t you the trip manager?" said the man, who voiced his frustration over her. "Why is he the one explaining this mess?"

"Well, sir, er—Mathersen?" I said while I turned to Mariel. She shook her head and half-smiled at the confirmation. "Because, er, we want every customer to have a fantastic experience. Here at H.M.S. Tours, customer satisfaction is always guaranteed."

"Really? How is my happiness guaranteed?"

"By giving you the best service possible."

"And you call this amazing service how?"

Bullshitting my way through this, I had no idea how to turn this around. I peered down and smiled at his frown. "By making you, er, uhm, satisfied and content?"

"You’re about to stick me in a non-air-conditioned cesspool. Either you will find my body burned to death or I’ll be suffering from a literal stroke from this heat."

"That’s a fair observation, but you’re missing the point."

"At what point would that be?"

He gazed at both my hands, looking like I was caressing his hand. He was waiting for me to let his hand go, and I did, hesitantly. I said, "The point is," then unclenched my fists. "I’ll be personally ensuring that I’ll, er—I’ll make sure," I had to come up with something fast, and said, "that I’ll be your personal guide for this tour. Your inclusion in our luxury yacht trip is guaranteed."

Mariel piped in. "Mr. Ellison." I glared at her to remind her of the NDA. "I mean, Damien." She pulled me to the corner and whispered, "Sir. The 3-day El Nido tour is $500 bucks. This trip costs $10,000. It’d be cheaper if we had him shipped to Manong Ed’s ferry tomorrow morning so he could join their day trip to El Nido. I’m emailing them right now."

"Do we still have a slot for the VIP package?"

"Yes. But it’s $30,000 for the—"

"Charge it on me," I whispered back.

"But sir," she noted, looking worried for no reason.

And then, I smiled. One of the keys to proper communication is to genuinely smile—that’s what my grandfather told me. Good news or bad news, make sure you smile. I peered down at her, waiting for her to change her mind, and it seemed to convince her a bit. "If you want to keep your five-star reviews, make sure that the customer’s satisfied. This was our system’s mistake. So, let’s remedy the situation. Ok?"

"Ok."

She tilted her head and proceeded to send some emails. I was intrigued by this passenger. He was disconnected for some reason—his mind had flown somewhere else. I wondered, why is he here?

I was in front of Albert, taking the luggage from his hands, when he asked me, "Where are we going?"

"To the kubo. It’s a bit of a walk from here. The beachside stretches for a mile. Albert followed me while I explained the history of the island for the duration of our walk. He didn’t say a word, and I was certain he wasn’t listening.

The kubo was remote and far away. It was too far to be called walking distance. I could’ve stuck him in one of the admin huts, though; the entire island’s booked. It would be weird if he bunked with Ryan and me while he slept in the bed and with me on the floor. Or should he be the one sleeping on the floor?

The trail was rocky. This was the point of the beach where the sand met gravel, pebbles, and stones. The path had more flora considering this part of the island was left virgin; withholding construction to a certain degree meant preserving the island’s natural habitat. And with it came the natural predators of the island: mosquitoes.

I was swatting my legs and arms every few seconds. I glanced over my shoulders, and he was whisking the white cloth over his back and under his legs. One thing I’m certain of was how he kept the jar close to his chest.

We arrived at the kubo. And yes. Even I wouldn’t stay here. It was a primitive-looking nipa hut on stilts, elevated, with three windows open extensively, accessible via a ladder, and one window shut. The ladder had six footrests. Two were broken. Nearby, there was a creek where the mosquitoes that rampaged the area flourished. With someone occupying this nipa hut, rest assured, he’ll be murdered by an all-day mosquito party. I turned around and saw that he was exhausted. I'm more than exhausted.

I asked, "Are you ok bud?"

"I’ll be alright," he said while heading up the ladder.

There was something odd about his breathing. It sounded haphazard. Even in the faintness, I could hear the staggered breaths. And then he missed his footing. I caught him. I held his torso as he clung onto the ladder with his back pressed against my chest. Peering down at his face to state the obvious, I said, "Hey, are you sure? You don’t look okay."

He continued climbing the stairs. "I’ll be alright. Don’t worry," he said, assumingly.

And as I was about to let go, asking myself why I was concerned, I reached over to hold on to the stairs while my other hand cupped his forehead. He’s burning up. "Hey, you’re not alright," I said.

But he kept climbing. And as he reached the top, he suddenly passed out. With one drastic pull on the ledge of the stairs, I was on top and beside him. I grabbed his things—his backpack and the jar—and placed them in the corner. In the centre, there was a wooden bamboo bed without a mattress. I carried him over to the bed and placed him gently. Feeling up his forehead, he really must be having a bad day. To go on the wrong trip and then get a fever on a journey set to sail to one of the most beautiful beaches in the world must be a bummer.

I grabbed my phone to get some help; there was no cell reception. I forgot that this area had no signal. I figured, might as well call the cavalry and get this place cleaned up. I’m always the one to keep my word that our goal is customer satisfaction. What better way to have Mr. Mathersen give us a five-star review than for him to experience world-class service by pimping up his crib? I’ll put an air conditioner there. Probably set up a flat screen in the corner. A mini fridge beside the bed...

What the fuck am I saying? The man was sick, and all the while, I was hoping to get rave reviews. What is wrong with me?

I was about to get a feel of his forehead for the second consecutive time when my hand slipped and went straight to his cheeks. I recoiled immediately until he grabbed my hand.

"Don’t go."

"What?"

"Don’t go," he said, out of some feverish delusion.

"What do you mean?"

"Don’t go, Daniel. Come back."

"But I’m—"

"Please. Don’t leave me here. Don’t go."

He started sobbing. They were gentle sobs meant to be heard in the privacy of his own company. And as he turned to his left, on the side of the broken window stuck never to open, I went down the kubo, glanced over my shoulder, and wondered who this Daniel person was. As I thought about how someone can make a person sick in this place, which some people call paradise, I wondered if maybe this place wasn’t meant to be a haven for some of us.