Ensconced in a serene private villa in paradise – renamed Amanpulo – P. Ramakrishnan is left pondering John Donne’s poetry and the lifestyle of the one percent.
Upon our arrival in Manila, we sail through immigration and into private cars waiting to take us to a mini-airport. It isn’t quite an airport per se, even though our luggage is thoroughly searched and we’re patted down. My companion, a fashion editor, and I are fresh off respective ill-fated relationships that ended in mild resentment and bitter Facebook feuds, and the pat-down is “more action than I’ve had all year”, I mumble en route to the private lounge. Her rejoinder haunts me still. “Speak for yourself, luv,” she says while tossing her mane. Tart...
…is served as we sit in the plush lounge: warm ones, accompanied by generous drinks with those toothpick-umbrellas found mostly on postcards of those dreamy holidays that celebrities have. And we’re about to have, too.
I’m a nervous and reluctant flier, but fortunately the short flight on a private plane isn’t unpleasant. A glorious day embraces us as we fly over sun-kissed seas. Escape from the smog of 852 is welcome. God the sky is blue. Photo-shopped by the Almighty, surely?
Often ranked among the world’s best tropical hideaways, Amanpulo (peaceful island) has to be seen to be believed. Occupying the private Philippine island of Pamalican, at the northern end of the Sulu Sea between Palawan and Panay, it’s a low-lying resort with nary a skyscraper in sight. Pamalican is covered with a sandy jungle of thickets and bush, amid seven square kilometres of pristine coral reef, and we’re looking at grand vistas of greens and blues – the antithesis of Central. The island is two-and-a-half kilometres long and only 500 metres across at its widest point, so when the plane lands, I heave a sigh of relief and gasp at the same time. Belinda Carlyle was right: heaven is a place on earth.
As we alight, my friend does her best impression of Jackie O. Large shades covering her face, her palms shading her forehead, she trots down three steps to the tarmac and likes what she beholds. “S’all right innit.”
Indeed. An island where Brad and Angelina may or may not have holidayed far from the madding crowd and prying lenses of the paparazzi. Despite our blandishments, the uniformed staff will neither confirm nor deny the names of celebrities or royals who have chilled in this very paradise before us mortals.
Soon after landing, we’re met by the couple who manage the resort, and pleasantries are exchanged – but our eyes are on a magical vehicle that will provide us with more joy than champagne and caviar dreams: a pristine white buggy (a polished golf cart really), the only mode of transport through the grounds of Amanpulo.
The island resort, opened in 1993, is studded with “casitas”, twin-roofed bungalows in hillside and beachfront settings, loosely modelled after the Philippine bahay kubo (native dwelling), and generously sized villas. Having been chauffeured to our separate villas, we’re left alone with our luggage. Beautifully decorated, the interiors reflect the islands: pebble-washed walls, coconut-shell tables, rustic Palawan baskets that double as objets d’art, king-size beds with rattan headboards, sliding glass doors that open to outdoor decks and his-and-her divans.
After a gleeful buggy run around the property, I call on my neighbour, who’s already changed into one of the terry-cloth robes that hang in the large Cebu-marble bathroom. Calling it a bath “room” would be false advertising, however. It is, quite frankly, a “bath-partment”, with twin vanities, separate changing areas, a shower and an elegant bathtub lit by large windows with wooden shutters. An orchid pot in the middle of the bath-partment is spawning something wickedly beautiful.
While some may choose a hillside-view private villa or one of Amanpulo’s 29 Beach Casitas, each linked via a path that leads onto a white-sand beach, we choose beach-view villas. Now, let me wipe away my tears of joy before I describe this beach. The softest white sand known to mankind, constantly encroached upon by the most serene, azure-blue waters that lap into the island. Water so clear, you can see deep into the ocean. A visual anomaly to Victoria Harbour, which is more of a muddy green carpet that only metal can perforate, the waters encircling the shores here reveal what lies beneath the surface of the ocean. Apparently there’s life in water – I am witness with wonder. Fish. Turtles. Cute ones. What lies beneath is glorious.
I turn left to find…no one as far as the eye can see. To the right, more of nothing. Just a strip of white sand that goes straight and curves somewhere in the distance to circumnavigate the island. Hmm. Alone at last.
In the distance are hints of other private Amanpulo villas, all a few metres from the sea, with private swimming pools (for those who care not for the private ocean!) and separate bedroom, living and dining pavilions, an outdoor lounge and a kitchen. For families of various sizes, one-, two- and four-bedroom villas come with a cook and housekeeper, and a number enjoy beautiful garden settings.
It takes more than a day to get used to the overwhelming visceral sensations of all the above. It takes me two days to discover a functioning hammock hanging between two palm trees next to my villa. Copious chapters of a crime-thriller are read on said hammock until I espy a vicious gecko eyeing my suspended toes. After several shrieks – I am not one for brevity of words or bravery of deeds – the hammock reading comes to an end.
As we’re not honeymooners, unlike the few other guests we spot infrequently, at mealtime we’re led to the restaurant at the clubhouse. No need for names; there’s only one of each on this island. With views of Manamoc Island across the channel, we have perfectly scrumptious Asian and continental cuisine for lunch and dinner. We don’t care how the fresh ingredients are brought in, because who worries about the nitty-gritty in heaven?
On the first morning, however, we eat breakfast alone, under a large umbrella, with trays of fresh food served by the staff. Looking out as the sun rises over the waters, shards of colour and light awaken us from our somnambular state of bliss. John Donne wrote:
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
…and while biting into slices of honey melon and sipping a third cup of freshly brewed coffee, I resolve that life on that other island (where death and taxes awaited under the aegis of CY Leung) isn’t for me. I’ll sit here, tan gently under the shade of the swaying palms and write the great Asian novel. Give up my existence as a glorified typist, embrace my misanthropy and live the life of an artist and hermit. This man will be an island.
Sadly, though, my paycheque doesn’t match the reality check. Paradise will have to wait.
Travel feature. Heaven on earth is somewhere here...!
Rama
(e-mail: ramakrishnanp @ hotmail dot com)
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