A few more hours under the guidance of Moe Hitler, the irrepressible tour proprietor we had hired in Yangon, and he would have succeeded in mind-controlling us to join a cult. Ron, in particular, bore the brunt of the emotional torture under what was, in fairness to Moe, an unintentional attempt at a dictatorial ruling over our group. When Moe ordered you to "Take a picture of that temple," you asked him, "How many shots? Panorama or portrait?"

It didn't take much effort getting there. Us having to endure a six-hour bus ride is nothing compared to the bare living conditions on the island. As seen from my outsider's point of view, the scarcity of everything I couldn't live without flashed right in front of my eyes. It was an initial impression that proved to be inaccurate—a mere hour into our stay there. We were greeted by a middle-aged woman whom everyone simply calls "Kapitana," while some, who have strict odes about current politics, prefer to call her "Ex-kapitana." It doesn't matter whether she won or lost in the last barangay elections; what stuck out to us then was her hospitality and eagerness to cut the rope of unfamiliarity between her and the two visitors who came to Alibijaban Island.