Love makes no promises. But apparently my father did.

When he proposed to my mother in Manila in 1969, he vowed to take her to Palawan, an island chain bordering the southwest corner of the Philippines that was, he swore, the most beautiful place he’d ever seen. "Thirty-eight years of marriage," my mom laughs, "and I still haven’t been to Palawan!"

I’ve travelled here alone, riding the eco-tourism wave, but I’ve created my own "three Rs" to personalize my green journey: reconnect with nature, rediscover my heritage and retrace the steps that brought my father to one knee.

Guidebooks portray Palawan as one of the last eco-frontiers. An archipelago of 1,780 islands (that’s roughly one islet for every pair of pumps in the Imelda Marcos museum), this remote South Pacific jewel could double as Adam and Eve’s original love nest. That is, if you overlook a couple of airports, a handful of luxury resorts, an upscale Chinese retirement complex and 800,000 or so ever-smiling Palawenos.

As my group’s speedboat cuts through the waves in Honda Bay, the sun dips into the horizon, splashing banners of red and orange across the sky and casting purple shadows in the sand. At dusk we anchor at Dos Palmas Island Resort & Spa, on an island fronted by modern Nipa huts wading on rattan stilts. When the motor subsides, the sounds of indigenous percussion swell, drummers dancing to the rhythm. In a slightly surreal moment, I half expect Tattoo from Fantasy Island to come bouncing down the pier. (De boat! De boat!) In his place we meet the equally charming guest services manager, Arnold, who marks my arrival with a garland of shells and the word I will hear throughout my stay at least a hundred times: "Mabuhay!" (Welcome!)

I awake the next day resolving to eat local. For breakfast this means the longsilog trio, a meal familiar from my childhood (and so common it’s even on the local menu at McDonald’s). On Saturday mornings, when most kids ate Aunt Jemima on pancakes, I salivated for sweet pork sausages, fried rice and a sunny-side-up egg. All of which I now shovel heartily into my mouth with a spoon and fork (Filipinos say nay to knives), washed down with fresh mango juice.

I’m now set to discover the island’s capital city, Puerto Princesa. Our tour kicks off at Iwahig Penal Colony, a glorious outdoor jail where instead of walls inmates are bound by hues. Created originally by Americans in 1904 (but locally run since 1906), the prison’s uniforms are coded according to security risk: brown is minimum, blue is medium and orange is maximum. While the latter two are segregated away from the public, low-risk prisoners are permitted to work and walk freely within the 40,000 hectares of lush landscape. (For trivia buffs: Iwahig was the backdrop for the 1966 action film Batang Iwahig, starring Joseph Estrada, who later served as the country’s 13th president and was sentenced in 2007 to life imprisonment for "plunder’; he was pardoned one month later.) At the encouragement of our guide Roman, who looks like an Asian Jim Carrey, I purchase my first black-market souvenir, a replica orange prison T-shirt, by pushing 200 pesos through the window crack to an actual prisoner. Again: surreal.

To reach the St. Paul Subterranean River National Park, we endure a road with enough holes and rocks to qualify as what the guides call a "free massage." After passing at least a dozen farmers using primitive plows (holy carabao!),

I thank heaven for the one small stretch of smooth pavement, evidence of modern infrastructure on the rise even in this remote area.

At Sabang Port I am refreshed by a warm South China Sea breeze as I board a bangka (outrigger boat) and admire the scenery during the 20-minute sailing to Saint Paul Mountain, one of two UNESCO World Heritage sites in Palawan. (The other is Tubbataha Reef Marine Park.) There may be a wide-body Airbus landing in Puerto Princesa every day, but there are still unspoiled pockets of splendour, such as this passage through Sabang Bay. With no condos, cruise ships or paved roads in sight, I imagine my dad almost four decades ago. "When I was working there in the 1960s, if I wanted to contact your mother, I had to send a telegram. I didn’t even have a camera to send her a picture."

Using a flashlight, a guide navigates our small canoe through the eight-kilometre-long river tunnel and points out the stalagmite and stalactite formations (apparently likenesses of Marilyn Monroe, fruits and vegetables, dinosaurs and the visage of Jesus Christ; at the latter reference my fellow Filipino passengers make the sign of the cross-typical here, in the most Catholic country in Asia). As we wind our way through this veritable bat cave, we keep our mouths closed when looking up, according to the guide’s warning on cave drippings: "Cold is mineral water. Warm is bat juice."

After a long day on the road, the signature Philippines spa treatment jumpstarts a travel-lagged body better than any coffee. Japan has shiatsu and Hawaii has lomi-lomi, but this age-old healing ritual begins with a footbath, then makes use of the island’s ubiquitous bamboo leaves, which my masseuse cuts into neat rectangles and paints with virgin coconut and eucalyptus oils, heating each one by candlelight. The result is a soothing patchwork of warm compresses to relax tired muscles.

On the final day at Dos Palmas, a small group of us picnic at the neighbouring Puting Buhangin (white sand beach), a private atoll about the size of three tennis courts. We delve into plates stacked with grilled unicorn fish, sticky rice and fresh seaweed. I take a mental snapshot of my surroundings; this, indeed, is the most beautiful place I have ever seen.

I also observe that I am one singleton in a sea of happy couples. Hard to miss are Ji-He and Dan, young newlyweds from Seoul who wear matching outfits; Love and Ed from Quezon City, a Manila suburb; and Ari and Thalie, a handsome pair of honeymooners from Tel Aviv. "We’re taking a one-month tour of Palawan," Ari says. His equally bronzed bride adds, "We already did Thailand, extensively. We thought we’d try something different."

Not one to be a third wheel, I leave them laughing and splashing each other in what seems to be the world’s largest infinity pool.

Walking back to my suite, it hits me like a falling buko (coconut) that I am Eve without her Adam. And I begin to pout at everything in this Garden of Eden: the cabanas built for two, the lazy hammocks cuddled up under shady palms, the private beach and the solitude of my suite. I eye the neatly made king-size bed, the single hibiscus flower laid across the pillow, and awkwardly note the absence of everything else-no TV, no radio, nobody. I pull out a postcard intended for my man and realize the words "Wish you were here" have new meaning.

Thirty-eight years later, against the picturesque backdrop of Palawan, I am writing a new chapter in my parents’ book of love. Palawan may no longer be the "virgin" paradise of my father’s past, but it is still a paradise. At this moment, I make my own promise: I will never come back to Palawan-alone.