The Panay News reported last Sunday that Guimaras Motorboat Trip Shortage Strands Passengers. Guimaras, home of the sweetest mangoes in the world, is the island province we call home. Jordan Mayor Ruben Corpuz wants to know why there aren’t enough boats operating.
“The City Mall Parola Expat Experience.” A retired fart like me has plenty of time to go shopping with his asawa. I enjoy checking out new places. Parola is located at Fort San Pedro Drive in Iloilo City. Guimaras, the island province we call home, is an approximately 12-15 pump boat ride away from Ortiz Wharf, minutes from Parola.
We left our starting point in Guimaras around 7:50 am on a cloudy, dreary Tuesday morning. We’ve been traveling by bus and ferry for almost 13 hours and it’s now 9 pm. We’re in Oriental Mindoro headed for the ferry at Calapan. Finally, here’s the last leg of this extended journey. “The Dimple Star Road Trip from Hell: Guimaras to Manila. The Conclusion.”
Our Filipino car insurance report was a virgin experience for both my asawa and me. My loving wife sideswiped a sand and gravel truck on the husky size the other day and came out on the losing end. Our new Ford Ranger XLT passenger truck was not even a week old. It was the battle of David and Goliath and David, the little guy, got his ass kicked this time.
My asawa is observing a birthday soon. To celebrate, we planned to visit the “City of Smiles,”Bacolod, but our shopping spree in Bacolod City gets off to a shaky start as I feared we would not even make it on time to the Super Cat Ferry in Iloilo that would whisk us to our destination. My spouse and I have been married for almost 15 years and despite nine years of that marriage spent in the United States, my Fililpina wife still embraces “Filipino Time” on more occasions than I care to recall.
I was posted at Parola Dock in Iloilo City waiting for The Tom Cat, my American expat friend from Guimaras, and his main squeeze, LenLen. We were on a sojourn to Buenavista, a town located at the northern tip of Guimaras Island, to visit the VeneZia Bistro, a restaurant/bar operated by our crusty British colleague, Keith. Sporadic showers slapped me in the face as I dove for cover underneath a battered, corrugated metal roof that looked like it had gone 12 rounds with Brock Lesnar and lost.