Pasir Tengkorak at low tide
We were on the 7:15 ferry out of George Town, which is later than it sounds because the sun was…
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The morning the river took over
We hadn’t planned on the boat breaking down. That wasn’t in any of the forum posts we’d read, and certainly…
Mei’s Rambutans and the Fuel Filter That Lied
The first sound we heard in the Cameron Highlands wasn’t the forest, or birdsong, or the diesel grumble of a…
When the Sky Becomes a Canvas
The wind came up an hour before sunset, carrying the smell of frying fish and the low thrum of a…
The Hour Between Dark and Green
The alarm went off at 4:15. Not the phone’s gentle chime — the kind of alarm that sounds like a…
The Slap on the Side of the Jeepney
The driver’s assistant slapped the side of the jeepney twice—a sharp, flat sound that meant we were full and he…
The Morning the Pump Boat Didn’t Show
The El Niño pump boat was supposed to leave at seven. I was at the dock at ten to, coffee…
Three Days in the Cordillera: What the Rice Terraces Actually Ask of You
I was three hours out of Manila when the driver pulled over at a roadside stand selling roasted chicken and…
The Pancit That Moves: The Garage on P. Antonio Street That Was Locked
The first bowl arrived on a plastic plate, steam curling past a fluorescent tube that hummed louder than the tricycle…
Hunting Down the Last Batch of Sugpo from Manila Bay’s Dying Fishponds
The heat hit us first, before we even got out of the car. It was late February, which in the…