I’ve noticed, over the years, that my approach to travel has become far more relaxed. I no longer feel the need to conquer a destination or plan every minute of an itinerary. These days, I prefer to arrive at a leisurely pace – ideally greeted by a warm foot wash, a mojito royale (the house version, generously topped with prosecco), and, if luck is on my side, the chance to spot a dugong (more popularly known as a sea cow) or two during the week. An hour in a small propeller plane – nature’s way of reminding you that progress is optional – brought us back to Busuanga. The town felt pretty much the same as it did back in 2019: warm, slow-moving, and absolutely uninterested in self-improvement. The road twisted through the hills, and soon enough, we were cruising across calm, glassy water toward the island. Discovery Coron, formerly known as Club Paradise, stretches its white sand with admirable restraint.
Its charm is subtle rather than showy. In the morning, cappuccino in hand, you might see a monitor lizard passing through the dining room as if checking up on the day’s activities. At night, buried six pillows deep, you can hear bats chatting softly in the trees beside your villa. It is luxury, certainly, without losing that easy connection to nature. The dugongs, however, operate on a different tier of exclusivity.
After several emails, I learned that the “residents” actually live near Aban-Aban Island, about an hour away by boat. Sounds simple enough, but these guys are basically rock stars. Only four divers are allowed at a time, for fifteen minutes maximum. No dropping in casually. In other words, they are less “marine wildlife” and more “underwater headliners with contractual boundaries.” So, bright and early at seven, we set off across the water. Mountains rose in the distance, untouched and impressive. An hour goes by almost without realizing it. It’s nice to sit back and soak it all in, and by the time we arrived, the sun was high and the sea grass shimmered below like an emerald carpet rolled out for someone more important than us.
The operation is impressively calm. Small outriggers patrol the shallows. A lookout slips into the water, and when he spots a dugong, raises an arm with a solemnity of a maitre d’ announcing a table. Our Bantay Dugong – basically the “guardian of the sea cows” – reminded us gently of the rules: keep your distance, move slowly, don’t interfere. There are two: Aban and Pingas. Both male, both territorial. Their feeding grounds are clearly marked, and if one strays into the other’s area, matters can be tense. Even in paradise, as it turns out, property lines matter.
Aban was the first to greet us, he is an impressive, contemplative creature who approaches seagrass with a seriousness of a Michelin inspector sampling a new menu. Watching him is strangely hypnotic. Pingas, on the other hand, is complex. On our first encounter, he appeared relaxed, almost indulgent. He drifted past us, stopping at his favorite patches of seagrass. He then headed for a rocky coral formation and started circling and brushing against it, giving himself a good scratch. It was probably just practical housekeeping, but from where I was floating, it felt very much like a performance. The following day, however, he changed the program entirely – darting, weaving, and seemingly inviting us to chase. Every time we caught up, he would flick his tail and vanish again. Our guides later described this as “playful”. My Garmin described it as “vigorous”. And yet, for all the twirling and darting around, it was not really a performance. Dugongs come up because they need air. They eat because they are hungry. And they put up with us because we’re only there for a short while and don’t matter all that much.
Back at the resort, cappuccino in hand, I watched a monitor lizard stroll past the dining room like it had been doing rounds for years. The mojito royale, like clockwork, turned up at sunset. Bats resumed their evening chatter in the trees.
Luxury has surprisingly little to do with concierges on speed dial or heroic pillow counts (though six pillows is persuasive) and more about getting a peek into someone else’s world without being kicked out. We’re used to environments that adjust for us: lighting, temperature, tone. The dugongs don’t adjust. They have their reservation. We are, at best, a tentative plus-one. They carry on regardless – grazing, surfacing, uninterested in our presence. Which is exactly how it should be. The world goes on perfectly without us. Every now and then, it lets us watch – a small, unexpected gift. Just a little reminder, or a shift in perspective more than anything material, about the kind of indulgence no amount of money can procure, only a certain way of seeing the world.
