My Journey – Part 4: Weekends and Final Escapes in the Philippines

My Journey – Part 4: Weekends and Final Escapes in the Philippines

If you caught Part 3, you already know the Philippines wasn't exactly a relaxing study abroad experience. Knife to the neck on a jeepney, a midnight street chase with a homeless stranger who probably saved my life, and a club night that went sideways in ways nobody saw coming.

But between all of that — there were weekends. And after three months of Sparta-style classes finally wrapped up, I had a few days before my flight to New Zealand. Three trips made it onto the list. Each one completely different. None of them forgettable.

One quick note on getting around: for anything outside the city, skip the jeepney. You want the intercity bus — cheap, straightforward, and honestly part of the experience once you get used to navigating the terminals.

Pagsanjan Falls: The Ride Is the Whole Point

Six of us academy friends put together a weekend trip to Pagsanjan Falls. Well-known spot, so logistics were easy — no chaos, no getting ripped off, smooth bus ride out. We showed up thinking we knew what we were in for.

We did not.

When someone says "waterfall," your brain goes to Niagara. You show up, you look at it, you take a photo, you leave. Pagsanjan doesn't work like that. You start at the bottom of the river — and you go up.

You climb into a long, narrow bamboo raft, and the boatmen take it from there. No engine. These guys push the boat upstream against a live current using nothing but wooden poles and their feet — wedging them into rock cracks, shoving off the canyon walls, hauling you forward inch by inch through a narrowing gorge. Pure muscle. Pure skill. No shortcuts.

And the gorge itself — I wasn't ready for it. Sheer rock walls rising on both sides, dense jungle hanging over everything, wild monkeys watching from the cliffs above, birds flashing color through the canopy, snakes draped along the banks. It felt less like a tourist attraction and more like something that had been sitting there long before humans had any business being in it.

Then you reach the falls.

Honest answer: underwhelming. After everything it took to get there, I was ready for something that would stop me in my tracks. It didn't. The falls are fine. They're just not the story.

The boatmen are the story. Those guys carried us up a roaring river with their bare hands and a wooden stick, every single trip, every single day. That image stuck with me far longer than the waterfall ever will.

Journey over destination. Every time.

Taal Volcano: The Donkey That Deserved Better

Next trip — Taal Volcano, sitting up in Tagaytay. At the time, it held the title of one of the smallest active volcanoes in the world. I say "at the time" because it has since erupted, and access to the crater is now restricted to boat tours around the outside edge. Knowing that makes me feel genuinely lucky I got there when I did.

The classic way up is by donkey. Sounds fun. Is fun — unless you're 183cm.

My donkey barely reached my waist. I'm not exaggerating. I stood next to it and the thing came up to my hip. My smaller friend climbed on in front, I squeezed in behind — only made sense to put the taller one in the back. Every other donkey in the group was trotting along just fine. Mine started huffing and wheezing within the first few minutes. I spent the entire climb with my legs lifted awkwardly so my feet wouldn't drag on the ground, feeling worse with every labored breath the poor animal took beneath me.

We were two people on a donkey the size of a large dog. I still think about that donkey.

But the crater — the crater was worth it. Steam rising out of vents everywhere, sulfur thick enough to taste. And then the ground itself: patches of dark red rock that moved. Slow, heavy bubbling, like something just below the surface was boiling. Whether that counts as actual lava or just superheated rock, I genuinely don't know. What I do know is that standing there, everything felt unstable in a way that's hard to describe — like the earth was reminding you it's not actually solid. Not really. Not all the way down.

If you've been thinking about going — go soon. The window might already be closed.

Angeles City: What It Was

Classes finished. Two roommates, a few days to kill before our flights, and one last trip on the list: Angeles City. Long-distance bus out, then the three of us crammed into a tricycle — a vehicle comfortably built for one, maybe two — for the final stretch to Walking Street.

If you know the Philippines, you know the reputation. Angeles is a nightlife city, and Walking Street is the center of it. I was in my early twenties, curious, and following the lead of an older roommate who knew the place. So we went.

Daytime, the street looked almost ordinary. Inside the venues it was something else entirely — women at the front with numbered tags, a clear system, nothing hidden about what the place was. We each made our choices and ended up back at our place with drinks and company for the night.

Somewhere late, my older roommate's partner got drunk, stepped outside to smoke, and didn't come back. Just gone. Money had already been paid. Plans for the whole night dissolved in one cigarette break.

He was furious — and in a move that, looking back, was not his smartest, he went back out alone in the middle of the night to try and sort it out. Came back empty-handed and visibly deflated.

My companion noticed. Without making a big deal of it, she called a friend. That friend showed up, and the two of them ended up spending the rest of the night together. Nobody planned it. It just quietly sorted itself out.

By morning everyone was at the pool — laughing, splashing around, completely relaxed, like the night before had been nothing unusual. Maybe for some of them it wasn't.

I was young. I was abroad. I was curious. I went. That's the whole story.

New Zealand: Confident, Then Immediately Humbled

Angeles was the last stop. After that, I was on a plane.

New Zealand Working Holiday visa already sorted. A room lined up in Auckland through a Korean community group I'd found online. Three full months of intensive English training behind me. I boarded that flight feeling genuinely prepared.

I landed, opened my mouth, and my brain locked up completely.

There's a version of English you learn in a classroom. And then there's the version people actually speak — fast, casual, full of slang and accent and context that no textbook ever warned you about. Three months of study had not prepared me for a single real conversation.

That was the gap. And it was bigger than I expected.

Part 5: From Auckland to Australia — Following Friends to Another Chapter.

Do you want see the previous stories? check those

[My Journey Part 1], [My Journey Part 2], [My Journey Part 3]