Santa Cruz is not Siargao, but that’s the point
For those who crave constant stimulation, Santa Cruz may feel too quiet. The nightlife is the sound of crickets. Wi-Fi can be patchy. Travel here often means waiting — for the banca ride, for the fisherman’s return, for the slow rhythm of island life.
But that is also the point. Santa Cruz offers the rarest commodity in travel today: the chance to arrive not as a consumer, but as a guest. To be reminded that beauty is not always in what is built, but in what is preserved
As the local outrigger pilot turns the engine off upon approach to the enigmatic Palad Sandbar, a collective sigh of amazement replaces the roaring vessel and blends with the gentle lapping of waves as the banca glides to a halt. Even during the height of summer, the nearly one-kilometer stretch of white sand floating off Maniwaya Island is never quite crowded. Families stake out corners for picnics, groups of friends snap photos, and children run barefoot across the shallows — but there’s always enough space to pause, breathe, and feel as though you have stumbled upon something untouched. Visit between July and September, and you may find yourself walking the entire sandbar alone, with only the tides for company.
On the Santa Cruz mainland, travel itself feels like part of the experience. Verdant farmlands flank the highways, while towering coconut trees peek through mountainside slopes that rise steeply from the sea. Every bend in the road seems to open up into another vignette of countryside life: a farmer leading a carabao through a flooded field, children chasing each other across meadows, or smoke curling lazily from a distant barangay kitchen. By the time you reach the town center, the Plaza welcomes you into a space designed not as a showpiece, but as a living square — its Roman-inspired columns reimagined as backdrops for civic gatherings, concerts, or simply people watching under the afternoon sun.
Santa Cruz is not Siargao. You won’t find sprawling bars thumping electronic beats until dawn, nor waves lined with foreign surfers racing for a perfect break. And yet, the absence of those things is precisely the point. Here, tourism is measured not by volume but by rhythm — the rhythm of communities who still claim their beaches, their tambayans, their traditions. There are tourists, yes, but never too many to drown out the pulse of the place.
Beaches that belong to people, not postcards
Maniwaya, Polo, and Mongpong are the marquee islands that dot the Santa Cruz seascape. Maniwaya is known for its sandbar, yes, but also for its laid-back shores where homestays spill directly into the water. Polo, ringed with white sand and fragrant aroma trees, shelters a secret lagoon only a short walk from its cottages — less an Instagram trap, more a place where families retreat to swim away the midday heat. On Mongpong, Ungab Rock towers dramatically, its limestone arch framing the sea like a myth etched in stone.
These beaches are not exclusive enclaves nor walled-off resorts; they remain woven into the fabric of local life. Fishermen still dock their bancas in the mornings, children dive from wooden jetties, and women wash nets at the shoreline. Visitors blend into this rhythm rather than replace it. You don’t feel like a consumer here; you feel like a guest.
Waterways that tell stories
Head inland, and the landscapes turn mystical. The Bathala Cave system in Barangay Ipil stretches deep into the earth, hiding lagoons that shimmer like hidden jewels. Kalangkang, a marine protected area, offers pristine waters where boulders tumble down slopes into the sea — a favorite for swimming and leisure fishing among locals who have guarded it for generations. Nearby, Bagumbungan Cave unfolds in chambers where underground rivers echo, and at the entrance you’ll often find a local artist crafting miniature Moriones masks, a reminder that in Santa Cruz, even souvenirs are born of heritage.
Communal nights
If you’re looking for nightlife, you’ll find it not in neon-lit clubs but in the tambayans where residents gather after a long day. Buyabod Pier, for instance, transforms into a communal hangout by night. Plastic chairs are pulled out, cold beers cracked open, and laughter drifts across the seawall. Strangers quickly become companions in conversation — about the sea, about local politics, about whatever the moment demands. These are nights not of spectacle, but of communion.
Morion Camp at Dapdap Beach is another such space, especially during Lent, when it anchors cultural exchange and community rituals. The camp, like much of Santa Cruz, is not designed to impress outsiders but to sustain insiders. Tourists are welcome to join, but the essence remains rooted in local practice.
The fabric of craft and tradition
Culture in Santa Cruz is not relegated to staged performances. In Balogo, the rhythmic clatter of buntal weaving endures, where skilled hands transform abaca into fine hats that once made their way to Europe. In Kasily, mask makers carve and paint the fierce visages of the Moriones, each one distinct, each one carrying the weight of history. In Punong, coconut fields and meadows roll endlessly, a landscape as much agricultural as it is aesthetic, dotted with farmers who have tended them for generations.
Even tourism here leans toward participation. At Panuluyan farmstay, guests eat meals from the land, and share stories with their hosts — a reminder that travel can be less about escape and more about exchange.
And when you visit local studios like Malikhaing Kamay near Bagumbungan, buying a trinket means meeting the person who carved, painted, or stitched it, not browsing a depersonalized rack of mass-produced souvenirs.
