Leave a place you loved any way except a slow way

“I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesterdays are buried deep — leave it any way except a slow way; leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe once, vanquished ones, while the futures lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance. The cloud clears as you enter it.”

— Beryl Markham in “West with the Night” (one of my favourite books)

I did not document leaving Siargao Island, my home of three and a half years, until now because I wanted to be present and enjoy every last moment to the fullest, just in case I would not be able to return soon.

Bondi, my dog

My beach little beach house near Cloud 9, my pets, my friends, neighbours, the ocean. The simplicity of life and sense of freedom that was sometimes scary and exhilarating at the same time.

I spent my final days with people who had become my island family.

I’m glad I did. Because a month ago, on the 15th of December, category 5 super typhoon Odette (Rai) made landfall in Siargao and destroyed most of this little island on the edge of the Philippines.

I write this from a comfort of a first world home with a roof over my head, running (drinkable) water and food in the fridge while thousands in the Philippines still don’t have their basic needs met. No electricity, no shelter from the rain or sun and still very little food.

Thankfully, everyone I know including their animals are alive and safe. But life as we knew it is gone for now. This is not the trendy, beautiful island anymore that everyone wanted to be a part of. Now it is the wounded child that is looking for help.

Stevie & Bikini, my rescue cats.

My heart goes out to all the locals how had already lost their income because of the pandemic. Let’s not even mention ‘resilience’, because contrary to popular opinion resilience is not a national trait nor is it a choice.

It is a necessity. You have two choices: give up or carry on.

We don’t know what we can endure until we have to. It helps to live a simple life already and be familiar with discomfort, certainly. But suffering is universal and losing your home and material possessions is hard no matter who you are.

The silver lining that I’m hoping for is that the island will be rebuilt in a way that is much more sustainable and allows for a healthy growth. One that allows the locals to keep their land and cultivate it, rather than giving in to commercial developments, and for a slow but steady flow of visitors rather than the onslaught of tourism that we witnessed in 2019.

Hats off to everyone who has stayed and spent their days helping others who have less before fixing their own homes. I wish I was there to help.

With Covid restrictions still in place, there is no knowing when I will be able to go back but I have learned to not see nothing as final but transitional. Often I said good-bye to people or places that I thought I’d never see again and somehow, they are still part of my life.

I started 2022 in the company of old friends and siblings, remembering past chapters and planning the next one in my life. These are the phases that we talked about in my film “Layers of Our Lives”.

You can stack them on top of each other and it is only later that you realise how they are all connected.

The key is making it through the transitioning times without losing your vision.

If you would like to help my friends and neighbours rebuild Siargao, please see our fundraiser here or follow local NGO @lokallab on Instagram.

Photos of Bondi, Bikini and Stevie by @GabrielBatallones 2021