TRAVEL | Puerto Galera 2025: Where Gays, Chaos, and Check-In Times Collide

Where do I even begin?

This year’s Puerto Galera edition was, dare I say, a masterpiece in organized chaos. Unlike last year’s minimalist collection of 10 lost souls and a failed group coordinator (read: flop era), this time we leveled up with 20 fabulous attendees squeezed into 6 rooms. A glamorous logistical puzzle, but at least I was there to steer the glittery ship myself.

It’s still a relatively “small” group—especially compared to those mega gay exoduses where 100 half-naked men descend upon an island like a RuPaul army. But as I always say: under 50 gays = manageable. Over 50 = start praying to Santa Santino. Puerto Galera Holy Week is our annual excuse to leave behind the sins of the city and commit brand new ones by the beach, complete with glitter, rum, and terrible decisions. My role? Fairy godmother of accommodations, land travel, and trying not to scream.

Day 0.
April 17, 2025: Port, Patience, and the Ghost Town of Batangas

I took the afternoon bus from my province to Batangas Port—because I’m that committed. Based on traumatic flashbacks, I knew the port becomes a mosh pit of sweaty humans by Holy Week, so I wisely booked us the 7am ferry the next day. This meant everyone had to be at the port by 4am (cue eye rolls and silent death wishes).

Reason #1: I needed to ocular the port situation and potentially become the sacrificial lamb who queues early while the rest of the gays sleep in.
Reason #2: We had exactly one van that allegedly seats 18 people but actually fits 17 if one sits on someone’s emotional baggage.

By 11pm, I reached the port—and surprise! It was dead. Not “Holy Week chaos” dead. I mean, zombie apocalypse dead. Everything was closed, the place was eerily silent, and I half expected a tumbleweed to roll by. So I parked myself on a cold bench in the lounge and pretended I was fine.

Day 1.
April 18, 2025: Van Drama, PWD Shenanigans, and the Quest for Beds

By 3am, the Viber group chat came alive like a gay séance. Our Manila meet-up was at a KFC in Buendia—because nothing says “we’re off to paradise” like fried chicken at dawn. The van was there on time. The people were early. But alas, math failed us: 18 queers + 1 cramped van = high-pitched complaints and existential dread.

One guy even claimed he was only “half-ass seated”—which, in van terms, is basically squatting with dignity. FYI: van rental companies will always lie to you. Lesson learned: cap it at 15 gays next time, or prepare for mutiny.

Despite the tight squeeze, they arrived at Batangas Port in one hour, and I welcomed them like a jolly concierge—minus the lei and fake smile. Sure, they looked annoyed, but everyone was in one piece, so we call that a win.

Then came the ticketing fiasco. One guy, F, bailed and passed his ticket to R (who was apparently his understudy?). Since F had a PWD ID, R had to act disabled for 10 minutes just to make the ticket valid. I was not amused. But we pulled it off—with mild legal risk and maximum gay audacity.

Waiting Game & Awkward Silences

By 5:30am, we were all in the lounge—twenty strangers sitting like contestants waiting for a reality show twist. No one was talking. Classic first-day energy. Honestly, we need to figure out how to make gays interact better during trips. Next year, I’m assigning social liaisons. Think of them as emotional flight attendants.

One bright spot: I reconnected with RC, a true believer in this “trip for gays, by gays” vision. He even gave me a shirt that didn’t fit him, which was equal parts sweet and shade. RC is the kind of guy who sounds like he came straight out of Ateneo but vibes with everyone—even the kanal crowd. A rare breed.

Arrival: Sun, Sweat & Soft Drinks

By 7am, we were herded into our ferry’s VIP cabin. (Yes, we’re bougie.) After an hour-long sea cruise, we landed at Balatero Port and hailed tricycles to Mangyan Hotel. That’s when we realized VL’s group was missing—turns out they waited for the van like it was the second coming. Miscommunication, or gay telepathy failure? Either way, tricycle it is.

At the hotel, no rooms were ready. Yay. So we dumped our bags in a random meeting room and watched half the group jump into the pool while the other half cracked open bottles of beer. Nothing says "relax" like sneaky pre-noon alcoholism.

Lunch happened in a roadside carinderia that looked sketchy but served fish that didn’t kill me, so 5 stars. Reminder: don’t drink the water, unless your stomach’s made of steel or regret.

Pro Tips When Visiting Puerto Galera

1. The farther from the beach, the cheaper the food. Walk like your budget depends on it.

2. Local water is for locals. Bring your own bottled life force.

3. No nearby pharmacies. If you get sick, you die fabulously.

4. Check-in times are lies. Pester the front desk until they cave.

5. Bring cash. GCash is cute, but your money still talks louder.

Finally: The Rooms, The Roomie & The Respite

Around 2pm, hallelujah! Rooms were released. I was paired with AB, a lovely guy from Iloilo who flew in just for this trip. He’s older, mellow, and not into drama—which, in this group, made him basically a unicorn. We both collapsed into bed and power napped like responsible adults… who will drink irresponsibly in five hours.

Hosted Dinner & Hiyas Shenanigans

Dinner was held at a BBQ joint I discovered years ago. They don’t take reservations, so I pulled a Filipino Karen and begged my way into an early table. By 6:30pm, we were shoveling grilled meat and doing our best to break the ice. Note to self: next year, add icebreakers with actual shots. Let alcohol do what awkward silences can’t.

Post-dinner, it was time for Hiyas—the gay mecca of Puerto Galera nightlife. It was Good Friday, which meant Jesus was dead, and so was the music. But that didn’t stop us. No beats? No problem. We had tower drinks and internal rhythm. I stayed behind to hold the table while others got dolled up. Naturally, I started drinking—because what’s one more drink when your liver’s already on its farewell tour?

Jurassic White Beach: The Gay Safari You Never Asked For

By 10PM, the gays came trickling in like a slow-motion montage from a budget Pride movie—glitter, crop tops, and poor decisions in tow. I played bartender, handed out vodka like communion, and once the headcount hit critical mass, I slipped off to finally change. The night was still young, and so were our mistakes.

We danced (read: wobbled) at Hiyas until 2AM, and in our drunken brilliance, decided it was time to pay pilgrimage to the island’s sacred gay grounds: Jurassic.

Jurassic: A Cautionary Tale in Sand and STDs

Now, if you’ve never been, Jurassic is where gays migrate at 3AM like horny frogs during monsoon season. It’s less "secret beach" and more “open-air Grindr with zero supervision.” For some, it’s about the thrill. For others, it’s about watching the thrill. I’m the latter. A certified voyeur with a minor in poor life choices.

I brought along a few Jurassic virgins to show them around like some deranged camp counselor. The place is divided into two sections: the Cave, which sounds mystical until you realize you’re just three feet away from tetanus, and The Jungle, for those feeling brave, reckless, or snake-bite-curious.

Tonight though? Oddly quiet. It was almost 4AM and I was just standing outside the cave, moonlight on my face, wondering if everyone else had been swallowed whole by the Jungle (or each other).

Then came Guy #1—a quiet flirter. After a few glances, he approached. We started with mutual stroking but, like my career choices, it led nowhere. He retreated to his post. Exit, stage left.

Enter Guy #2: taller, drunker, hornier. He dove into my crotch like a man who dropped his keys in a urinal. I hesitated—I couldn’t even see his face, and my inner hypochondriac was screaming “oral syphilis!” Still, he was persistent. He pulled out a condom and basically impaled himself on me. I know, I know—mistake number one through fifty. I was on PrEP, but still, my common sense had clearly gone home early.

Even mid-act, I tried to redirect him to another guy (because apparently I was now running a sex referral service), but he dragged me to the cave and insisted we go missionary on the sand. Romantic, except the sand was basically broken glass and my knees were paying the price. Eventually, my equipment gave up—clearly it had higher standards—and I politely bowed out.

He tried to lure me back with the classic line, “mas masarap ako sa kama.” Tempting, but I’d already made one catastrophic choice—I wasn’t about to go for the sequel. I tossed the used condom into the rocks (eco-sin, I know), rinsed off in the sea like some slutty mermaid in crisis, and stared at the moon wondering how my life got here.

When One Finish Isn’t Enough

Did I learn from that? Of course not.

I wandered into the Jungle’s more discreet covered area, where I found Guy #3—standing alone like a gay vampire waiting for a hookup. He was cute. We made out like high schoolers in a janitor's closet, and soon enough we were stroking each other like we were being paid by the minute. We both finished (finally), and I figured that was the Universe telling me: go home, slut.

Back at the hotel, my roommate was already asleep. I, in my last sliver of dignity, showered and passed out in nothing but underwear.

5AM Plot Twist

Then—plot twist—at 5AM, I felt hands. Not divine intervention. Just my roommate feeling me up like a vending machine. Chest to crotch. Slow strokes. I figured I’d be limp forever after tonight’s chaos, but alas, my body betrayed me. I didn’t want to kill the vibe or his feelings, so I let him carry on. Eventually I came. He turned his back and went back to sleep like it was just a regular Tuesday.

We never spoke of it. Breakfast was… polite. Awkwardly polite.

Moral of the Story?

If you ever feel like your life's a mess, just remember: somewhere out there, a glitter-covered gay man is washing sand out of his ass at sunrise, wondering the exact same thing.

Day 2. April 19, 2025

Day 3. April 20, 2025