Survivor: Banished in Batangas

By: Stanley Palisada

A bored, female voice answered my call to the Munting Buhangin Resort booking office. It’s website promised a white sand beach experience in Nasugbu, Batangas. Backed by Boracay-like pictures, we fell for the seduction. “A place perfect to strengthen family ties,” reinforced the internet.


“Our family room costs 5,100 a day excluding entrance fee of 190 pesos per head. 50 percent down payment should be deposited to our bank account. Deposit slip with your name, address, company and home number should be faxed immediately, for the CONTRACT,” she said.


There’s a contract? “Can we just walk in?” I interjected.


“We will not guarantee a room unless you reserve,” she scared me.


While most resorts would do everything to entice guests, this one was snooty and made us feel like social climbers booking for Amanpulo, Maldives or some other celebrity enclave in France. We decided to just drive over, for the sake of adventure.


Munting Buhangin is just one in a string of resorts in Nasugbu Batangas. Nestled beside prime leisure properties such as Punta Fuego we expected decent amenities and service at the very least.


We turned into its entrance gate atop a hill. A security guard handed over a car pass and radioed the receptionist to expect us. We were told to drive further down a very steep slope that zigzagged for about a kilometer. Half the drive was on a well-paved road which deteriorated into cracked cement slabs towards the end. Another security guard pointed us to a parking area in the forest.


“Hanggang dito na lang ang sasakyan sir,” said the guard. “Bibitbitin nyo yung gamit nyo pababa ng resort,” he added.


We descended via concrete stairs with about 100 steps. This is not easy with bags, inflatables, the heat, the Christmas binge and a pesky 4-year old in tow.


“Pwede nyo po pabitbit yung mga dala nyo magbayad kayo singkwenta sa magdadala,” the guard suggested. We took the advise.


We reached the resort, gasping for air and seeing stars in broad noontime. The sand was my first shocker. I thought I was just dizzy from all the walking but the sand was not really white like in the picture. It was ash-gray-black. But sand was the least of my problems.


The cottages were dilapidated and the world’s most hostile receptionist attended to us. She coordinated our check-in with military temperament, where military precision would have sufficed (took half an hour to fix everything). There was no greeting, just an unwelcoming frown. My wife would have waged World War 3 over customer service violations if not for her own exhaustion.


I looked around and saw plastic benches and cottages in total disarray and people grilling assorted animal carcasses. A restaurant stood uninhabited. We would later discover that food prices there are comparable to posh restaurants but not commensurate to their “evacuation center quality”.


An eardrum-busting Videoke blurted Eva Eugenio’s “Tukso” sang by an old woman whose talents do not include singing. On the sand drunks, beer bottles, cigarette butts and plastic bags lay where seashells used to be. At the beach multitudes swam there was hardly room for waves. The beach front chaos is worse than the heart of Boracay Station 3. Even Villa beach or the Navotas and Malabon shorelines in the 70’s were probably more serene.


Our room in the apartment style building was a couple of steps up a ravine in the jungle—disputing another internet promise of “waking up to a carefree beach”. Instead, wilderness and Dengue mostquitoes adorned our doorstep.


I asked for paradise and was given the rain forest.


We shared our rickety bunker with termites and other critters who were more considerate than the people in the other rooms. As early as lunch time our neighbors spilled onto the common terrace in alcoholic merriment oblivious to peace and order or our mental health.


Once settled, we ordered late lunch and paid over 1000 pesos for chicken barbecue basted with banana catsup and overcooked, third class rice just as gray as the sand. All the other guests (probably not first timers) brought their own food as they knew better. We did not. The website boasted of a full service restaurant but didn’t say it closed at 6 p.m., padlocked all the fridges and left no key to the night staff so overnight guests will die of thirst.


At around 9 in the evening we sat by the beach, parched, hungry and angry. There was nothing to drink. A lone bottle of water was reserved for our son’s milk. I thought of driving all the way to Nasugbu town for drinks and food but my wife thought it was too risky.


This must be the “strengthening of family ties” this resort is promoting. For hungrier or thirstier, till death do us part.


At this time of night Koreans have taken over the Videoke machine and sang their off-key Lady Gagas and Justin Beibers, torturing us until we lost consciousness.


“Could this get any worse?” I asked my wife at bedtime as my life flashed before my eyes.


“Patience, the staff assured us that the restaurant opens at 6:30,” she said, half-convinced. The next day, restaurant opened at almost 10 a.m. We were so thirsty and famished we could have devoured the receptionist if we tried.


That’s Munting Serbisyo, rather.. Munting Buhangin for you. We decided to just pack up, leave and never look back.

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