Britania Once More- Part Three

Mayor Alameda’s “Ademala” is the grandfather of all motorboats-for-hire in Britania. White, wide, and with parallel seats like that of a jeepney, the “Ademala” has a way of calming down tourists scared of seafaring.

I boarded the “Ademala” along with other judges and went straight to the rear, opting to sit beside the boatman because I had several questions to ask. Standing near the hull and facing us, the tour-guide leaned back against a pole and raised the megaphone to her mouth to do her spiel. But then the boat roared and the wind snatched away her words.

I stared at the water, awed at how clear it was. Beneath us I could see sand, seaweeds, corals, fish. A foamy spray hit me in the arm as the bamboo outrigger plowed through.

The tour-guide had given up and was having a small talk with those sitting in front. I pitied her. She should have done her spiel before departure, that way she wouldn’t have to shout the bits of info she wanted to share.

Fifteen minutes ticked by and the “Ademala” was ready to hit the whiter than white shores of Buslon Island. I took off my Nikes because I wanted to relive the heavenly feeling of how it was to walk on arguably the Philippine’s finest and softest sand.

Buslon is the most popular of Britania Islands because it’s the nearest and ergo, the easiest, fastest and cheapest to access. From here, one can do island-hopping either by swimming or riding a boat. However, during low tide, one can do it on foot! Yes, that's right---on foot!

For the launch, Buslon Island was decorated with huge, multi-colored umbrellas and artsy sailboats. By the biggest rock formation a long table stood; and behind it were men and women in floral uniform holding a leafy fly swat. Draped with coco fronds and heaving from seafood, fruits and delicacies, the table created a fusion of colors that made me all the more ravenous.

After someone prayed, we all turned into food amoks.











Then it was island-hopping time!

I’ve been to Britania at least thrice but I haven’t gone to its distant islets like the pebble-rich Bon-bon and Naked Islands. (It’s called Naked Island because it has nothing on it except the sand, the sea and the sun!) And so when the tour-guide announced the boat was ready to depart for Naked Island, I ran to Ademala like it was Noah’s Ark. As we passed by them, the rest of Britania Islands grouped and regrouped as though an unseen magician was doing his trick to enthrall us.



From afar, Naked Island was an apparition, a fallen cloud that God never bothered to pick up. Shrouded in white, it shimmered as it stretched to its full length of about four basketball courts.

We jumped off and ran, imprinting footsteps deep into the sand. The skies hung pretty low such that when we reached the top of the mound, we extended our hands for God to lift us to heaven in one fell swoop. Then the cameras clicked as my companions lived their fantasies and captured the enchanting moments for Facebook purposes.

Naked Island cannot be described; it can only be experienced.



From Naked Island, we went straight to Barangay Britania for the critiquing session of the day’s affair. Ms. Lala Ambray brought my things because I left them in Buslon Island.

In my book, Britania Islands will always remain tops. And though I want them solely for my own selfish enjoyment, they're too beautiful to remain unshared!

my addiction

I love condensed milk. And if you ask me what’s my favorite sandwich spread for my pan de sal and pan de leche, Liberty tops my list with Star Margarine sprinkled with brown sugar as close second.

My mother made desserts that required condensed milk like leche flan or buco salad. And every time this happened, we---the six of us---would squabble for the empty Liberty can. And when it got rowdy, mother would invoke my being the youngest. And so I’d repair to one corner of our kitchen where I would spoon whatever remained of the creamy, sweet, yellowish viscous liquid into my mouth. Other times I’d pour hot water into the can, stir, and shake it before drinking the contents straight from the can’s jagged edge. Thinking about this now felt strange because I was the kid who hated drinking Nido and American Tiki-tiki.

My memory bank is crammed with images that include a can of Liberty with twin punctures plugged in by its own dog-eared label, sitting on a saucer that contained water to keep the ants at bay. (There was no ref yet!) And just before it turned sour, we’d make pastillas—milk candies---out of it.

Most of my baon as a kid went to my classmates who sold pastillas. Placed inside a Nescafe glass, these pastillas were shaped in circles and dusted with white sugar so they wouldn’t stick together like goat dung.

Pastillas became my drug of choice. Sometimes the craving grew beyond quelling that I had to buy them on credit. But knowing there would be hell to pay if my parents found out, I had to make my enterprising classmates promise not to seek me out at home for payment. But because all promises are made to be broken, my parents found out and made pastillas of my butt!

I went cold turkey and joined Pastillas Anonymous! No, scratch that; I’m hallucinating.

I went through college clean of my addiction. But every time I saw a can of Liberty, I had this compulsion to open it and pour its contents on a hot oiled pan to make pastillas that I would have wolfed down in one go!

Years rolled by. Then recently, and just like that, my drug of choice started appearing on the shelves of big stores in Tandag. They may now come wrapped in water cellophane and shaped in tiny squares but they are as yummy and sweet as the pastillas of my youth.

I’m on relapse!