113 kilometers to Baler and a lomi overload
4 apprentices and a master, tipsy changekeeper, confused teller and the missing payee, Thursday Group expelled from the ASEAN civic space
they all signed the OPA in Castaneda
113 kilometers from Baler and a clubhouse sandwich
Siem Reap assured in December, to Luang Prabang by January, Kathmandu possibly on February, Ortigas cancelled for the shamans of San Jose
3 days in the trails led to Reserva
The mural along Jalan Tan Hiok Nee is alive.
It performed a dragon dance a little over an hour after clearing 41.4 kilometers from Changi Airport to the Johor Bahru Checkpoint, a rain-induced Malay buffet dinner at Lepak Corner and real sleep in a real bed at Amari Hotel, and claiming my badge and goodie bag at Pesada Johor Internasional.
It doesn't matter that the bus driver's zipper is open throughout the trip, that the immigration officer at CIQ never heard of APCW 2023, or I was served hot teh tarik instead of the cold one I ordered because the Straits of Johor may sound big but it is actually narrower than the 1.056-kilometer Johor-Singapore Causeway.
In Johor Bahru, the rains fall at 2 pm and stops after an hour so by 4 pm, I changed into Indiana Jones to explore the Old JB Town Heritage Food Trail where I had a late big lunch of Restoran IT Roo's (circa 1960s) famous Hainanese chicken chop, so huge that I left some on the plate to offer to the memory of the wealthy Indian family who built The Red House and to the gods of the Johor Ancient Chinese Temple whose main gate is the subject of a young street photographer.
Yes, Tueday was the big day but Sang Heng (circa 1950s) remained closed, maybe forever, and I don't really like banana cake so I left Hiap Joo Bakery (circa 1919) for a pack of kaya buns at Salahuddin Bakery (circa 1937) before a late afternoon breakfast of kaya toasts, soft boiled egg and hot tea at Restoran Hua Mui (1946) that should have been the sop kambing I craved for because dinner, although free, is a disappointing bowl of fish that someone choose for me because I asked him to.
On Wednesday, Grab took took me to JB Sentral to be swallowed by the throng making its way to Singapore, an hour too early but late enough for the CIQ immigration officer who fell asleep while stamping my passport that was held up at the Woodlands Checkpoint because my approved electronic arrival application to Singapore is for single entry only, something that the talkative coach driver did not tell until our arrival at Changi's Terminal 1.
But "life is a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get" (Mama Gump).
I got an early check in from Jewel 5 hours into my flight back to Manila which means 5 hours of enjoying the hospitality of SATS Premiere Lounge's bar and kitchen, had an entire row for myself at PR 508, and was delivered at Hop Inn-Morato from NAIA Terminal in no time despite the rush hour traffic.
Johor Bahru was almost dry and halal so a young Barbie Doll dedicated a Johnny Walker Black for us in Bongabon while an older and familiar version of her piled heaps of lechong baboy over a case of San Miguel Premium All-Malt after 8 hours on stage at the Palayan City convention...
No, it's not the wandering whistling duck who broke the morning calm but an eerie lullaby hummed by a silhouette etched in the still waters of Ormoc Bay, a sad song about PR 2985 that almost departed on time despite changing gates in Manila to a late lunch of seafood samgyupsal in Baybay.
The shadow, revealed as a green two-piece bikini with a dragon tattoo, enticed me to sing a lamentation of not having laundry service at the Sabin Resort Hotel and failing to visit the Flash Flood Memorial.
There was MacArthur's ballad too as we passed by the Leyte Landing Memorial National Park in Palo, a sorrowful ode to the three lonely bottles at Mimay's Seafood, Australian beer gone too soon in the bowels of Rainbow Warrior 3, and chewy kinilaw that were the stories told behind the Yellow Doors.
The blues were played all night at Hotel XYZ to herald PR 2892's collision with a bird, the closure of the airport for his royal higness BBM, an eventual cancellation and the ensuing madness of a 14-hour wait for PR 2988, then 7 more hours at Hop Inn-Morato.
But it was the blues from Ormoc so everything was all right in Bakal 2 where the Thursday Group belted birthday songs.
But the classics rule --- an orchestra of tires crunching dirt roads blending with the songs of birds and the sounds of inner villages as I pulled out from the last 12 days in Luang Prabang and Tacloban to segue into the next 5 days at Johor Bahru.
In 24 hours, I had a dinner of baby squids and crunchy adobo in Mandaluyong, a lunch of pork ribs-prawn noodles at the Old Airport Food Center in Singapore, a dinner of Malaysian buffet at the Lepak Corner of Johor Bahru, and seamlessly passed through four immigration checkpoints.
The ghost of Luang Prabang haunted me ever since I was forced to give it up for an outcome harvesting workshop in Manila in 2019, and it was only after PG 941's bumpy landing at the Luang Prabang International Airport that a fierce afternoon sun exorcised it forever.
Luang Prabang is the mystical royal capital of the deposed Kingdom of Cambodia, home to 6 of what tasteatlas listed as the 9 best sai oua in the world and ancient temples where monks beat oversized gongs to usher the Festival of Light through Google Maps to the Tamarind Restaurant and Cooking School along the Nam Khan River and what is said to be the best sai oua in the world.
Yes, Luang Prabang is indeed the sai oua capital of the world and a UNESCO World Heritage Site too since 1995, its rich history seamlesly fused into an ensemble of well-preserved traditional and colonial architecture that packed the Old Quarter to the seams where every morning, my imaginary bike tour cruised through ancient temples and a line of monks performing the daily alms giving ceremony for a horde of tourists.
