Siargao Insomnia: The All-Nighter I Didn't Sign Up For
Sweating, staring, and surfing the cosmos at 3 AM
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This batch of daily diary entries marks another week of my solo-travel voyage throughout Asia! If you missed last week’s batch, you can read it here!
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December 4th, 2024
General Luna, Siargao, Philippines
Sleeplessness claimed me entirely during my final night in Siargao - a rare absolute that defied my previous experiences of restless evenings. Throughout my month in the Philippines, I had encountered numerous challenging nights, but each had ultimately granted me at least one or two hours of REM sleep. This night, however, was different. Absolute wakefulness descended like an unwelcome guest.
The hostel's electrical infrastructure resembled a dystopian nightmare. Black electrical wires dangled from the ceiling like spectral spider webs, connected to flimsy fans that hung precariously above our dormitory beds. These fans sputtered the weakest flow of air I had ever experienced - their movement more suggestion than substance. Counterintuitively, the fans' mechanical noise proved more disruptive than any potential cooling effect. The room carried a musky atmosphere, redolent with the accumulated essence of surfers' sweat and well-worn feet - an olfactory signature impossible to dispel.
Bright white floodlights blazed overhead, luminous enough to illuminate a hospital waiting room. The circuitry connecting the fans to these lights created an absurd environmental tableau. Here we were, a collection of travelers attempting to find rest beneath lights bright enough to perform surgery, all while experiencing Siargao's ongoing power outage. The irony was not lost on me - this unintentional illumination transformed our sleeping quarters into an insomniac's laboratory.
When I finally surrendered to restlessness, stepping onto the beach around 2 or 3 AM, the universe revealed its most magnificent offering. The starry sky transported me back to a memory from 2018, when as a 16-year-old, I had lain on Somosomo Island in Fiji. This celestial canvas surpassed even that remembered beauty. Stars peppered the night with such intensity that the horizon resembled a child's blanket fort - a velvet expanse perforated by moth-like bites of light. Each pinprick seemed a window to infinite possibility, with only the tallest palm tree or perhaps my own form serving as the metaphorical tent pole holding this cosmic canopy aloft.
Shooting stars cascaded with breathless frequency, each one a silent invitation to wish, to dream, to expand. My heart raced with cosmic connection as I spun in circles, searching for constellations. Each falling star became a messenger, carrying my deepest aspirations - a longing to spread yoga's transformative message across the universe, to make the practice as familiar to others as it had become to me.
Around 9 AM, exhausted from my celestial vigil, I crawled to a folding chair in the hostel's lobby facing General Luna's main road. My meditation lasted mere moments before practical concerns intruded. My phone's battery was dying, and I needed a charger to secure a ride to the airport. As I mentally scanned the lobby, a sign caught my eye - "Barbie Ice Cream" - and triggered a cascade of memories from my first day in Manila.
That initial day, a driver had playfully taunted me, declaring I was an American who would never want to leave the Philippines. He spoke of "Siargao Barbie" - a woman from the United States who had arrived for a week's vacation and simply never departed. She had established an ice cream shop in General Luna, becoming a local legend. Throughout my month-long journey, I had repeatedly joked about potentially becoming "Siargao Barbie" myself - though perhaps I'd be the "Siargao Yogi" or "Siargao Ashkenazi."
Now, standing in her actual establishment, the story transformed from distant folklore to immediate reality. The concierge informed me that Barbie had returned to America and wouldn't be back for a month. Surrounded by her shuttered shop, I pulled out my copy of Kerouac's "On the Road.” Reading the final hundred pages, I found myself deeply moved. The narrative of a twenty-something aimless traveler resonated profoundly. But what struck me most were Kerouac's fever dreams in Mexico City - an experience eerily parallel to my own psychedelic voyage in February, triggered by questionable street tacos in Roma Norte. Visions of Aztec pyramids, human sacrifices, and glimpses of my future had danced through my feverish consciousness.
The book's final words gutted me - the revelation that Kerouac had been chasing a father figure, an interpretation of God, whom he never found. Once again, this reinforced a recurring moral: true learning happens not through extensive travel, but through introspective stillness. Svadhyaya - self-study, as yogis call it - suggests we are born knowing everything. The art lies in listening, in observing, in being aware.
Yet travel was not about pure introspection for me, but connection. I sought to meet people, to absorb their magic, to exchange fragments of humanity. As I tucked the book into Barbie's storage - an anonymous gift for her return - the hostel's ambient sounds offered another profound moment of connection.
My final morning concluded with a swim at Cloud 9 beach - my natural shower during the ongoing plumbing outage. Hermit crabs shuffled in the sand. Surfers tumbled in waves. Seagrass swayed. I contemplated the water's eternal nature - how it would outlast restaurants, people, palm trees. Connected now to oceans worldwide - Brooklyn's Atlantic, my grandparents' Mediterranean - I recognized my beautiful, momentary insignificance.
One day, I would dissolve into these waters. But today, I was simply present, alive, observing.
Thank you for taking the time to read about my week. Next week, I’ll be sharing my next batch of daily diaries.
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See you soon!
Love,
Etai