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| The entrance to Siargao Island's legendary Cloud 9 break. By ONDINE COHANE |
We sat facing a weathered wood pagoda set in an emerald sea, the perfect
swimming distance from a private beach lined with crooked coconut
trees. Grilled mahi-mahi that arrived via a banca, a Filipino fishing
boat, just an hour earlier was seasoned with calamansi (a citrus fruit
native to the Philippines) and served with grilled eggplant and squash
from the resort’s organic farm, accompanied by a bottle of crisp white
wine. Steps from the restaurant pavilion was our villa with its huge bed
swathed in a white mosquito net, an open shower surrounded by local
shiny white pebbles, and swinging outdoor daybeds. The pummeling of an
unforgettable surfing session hours before made the idea of crawling
back to such luxurious digs even more appealing.
We were on Siargao (pronounced shar-GOW), a teardrop-shaped island
that’s just one of the Philippines’s 7,000-plus, and the southernmost
refuge for travelers before the less politically stable region of
Mindanao. Even to Filipinos, the island, on the country’s Pacific-facing
side, is not all that well known. Before the airport opened here in
2011, it was an overnight ferry ride from Cebu (which Magellan put on
the map when he landed there in 1521). And it’s still not so easy to
reach: the two-flight, roughly four-hour trip from Manila (including a
layover in Cebu) has only the semblance of a schedule part of the year
because of mercurial weather.
But the island is known to surfers, largely because of its fabled break,
endearingly called Cloud 9. It stands in the firmament of the best
rides on the global circuit, a fast and powerful monster because of the
water that sweeps in from the Philippine Trench in the Pacific Ocean. In
the fall the arrival of the habagat, a weather system fed by southwest
winds and easterly currents, creates even more monumental tubes. Local
lore credits a drug runner-turned-surfer with putting Cloud 9 on the
radar — and in the decades since, it has drawn world pros for an
international tournament hosted by companies like Billabong and
Quiksilver. A small industry of hippie-style guesthouses, bars and surf
schools has followed.
My interest in the island was already piqued — I have invariably found
in my travels that surfers get to the best beaches first, before
mass-market tourism arrives. And then came word of the opening of Dedon
Island Resort, a gleaming nine-villa property. Stays there come with a
full menu of adventure sports, from surfing to deep-sea fishing, and it
has amenities like an outdoor cinema and a private chef using organic
produce from its farm. But it also had a $1,600-a-night price tag for
two attached (rates have since dropped a bit) and a Web site that used
enigmatic terms like “outdoor living lab.” I wondered who was taking two
small planes from the Filipino capital to spend that kind of money on
an island that they most likely couldn’t place on a map.
To find out, we left from Siargao’s tiny airport and followed an
international mix of young backpackers and surfer types off the prop
plane to the waiting fleet of jeepneys — colorful and ubiquitous
fixtures of Filipino roads that are part bus, part jalopy, part canvas
of personal expression. Cobbled together from former United States army
jeeps and random spare parts, they barrel along at alarming speeds with
passengers hanging out the open doors and bags haphazardly perched on
top.
Dedon’s, however, was unlike any jeepney I had seen. It was done up in
mirror-like chrome and shining cream paint, kitted out with terry-cloth
seats like beach loungers, piped-in lounge music, and snacks of dried
coconut and pineapple. As we traveled, Marlo, a resident surfer who
doubled as the resort greeter, pointed out huge carabao, Filipino water
buffalo, plowing bright-green paddy fields on one side, and small
thatched fishing huts suspended over the water’s edge on the other.
School was letting out for the day and children waved to us from the
back of their parents’ motorbikes as we crossed through a little
village. Then, nothing but empty, white sand beaches flickering between
clusters of sloping palms.
When we arrived at the huge lattice gates to Dedon at the end of a long
dirt road, it was clear that these weren’t your usual surfer digs. Woven
chairs that looked like big bird’s nests swung from coconut palms, a
trampoline sat surrounded by a lattice enclosure, and large,
traditional-style wood villas were linked by raised walkways past
gardens full of blooming frangipani and wild orchids. On one side, a
pool and secluded beach offered views of the ocean and islands beyond;
on the other, channels of mangrove lagoons were the gateway to kayaking
into secluded canals. After dinner, we lingered on oversize sofas and
listened to soft rain falling on the roof. (It was February, the tail
end of the rainy season.)
The foosball table beside us was a reminder of the resort’s genesis. At Dedon’s center is Bobby Dekeyser,
a former soccer star from Belgium who, after a career-ending injury in
his 20s, turned to the high-end outdoor furniture business, producing
pieces in Cebu, known for their high-quality weaving. Once there he
discovered Siargao on a side trip and decided to make the property a
showcase for his designs, as well as an introduction to his personal
Shangri-La. The result is exactly what is advertised: a kind of luxury
camp for those who want both high adventure and high design — and have
the money to enjoy them in such an isolated spot.
“We are both very active, and in the course of a week we went mountain
biking, stand-up paddling at sunset through mangroves, wakeboarding, and
surfing in the open ocean,” said Tania Reinert, a guest from Hong Kong.
“It is one of the few places that still takes a while to get to, and it
feels really remote, based on fishing and farming cultures.”
Siargao is indeed a gateway to a particularly beautiful and unspoiled
region of islands and island culture. Taking advantage of a clear
morning, Sean, the resort’s Kenyan-born activities guru, took us on a
boat tour. We floated by Pansukian, nicknamed Naked Island, and past
Guyam — really just a coconut grove ringed by sea. At a larger island
called Daku, fronted by a powdery beach, fishermen mended their nets,
children showed us their little brightly painted wood boats, and
cockerels crowed periodically in the village’s front yards. The
wood-shaded structures set along the headland are crowded with locals on
the weekend, Marlo told us, but on this weekday we were alone. It was
hard to imagine such beauty remaining undeveloped in other parts of
Asia, and in fact a bill to protect Siargao and the outlying islands as
part of an ecological preserve was approved by the country’s congress.
After we digested a beach picnic, the sky turned ominously gray so we
quickly headed to the break, where we planned to try out our rusty
skills. I hesitantly clambered to my feet on the next wave, but didn’t
get far before swallowing a lung full of seawater. But after a few rides
I settled into a smoother rhythm. Soon a driving rain began, but our
small group continued to catch the growing swell. Afterward we lay under
towels in Dedon’s motorboat, shivering from the ocean and rain,
drinking fresh coconut water, exhausted but happy.
Source: travel.nytimes
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