The Chocolate Hills, so named by a nameless tourist, are covered in a thin green coat of scrub vegetation. They look like hills, the way a child would draw them, a series of stolid sinusoidal curves marching forward into a socialist utopia“Myra, these are not chocolate hills,” says Myra, our guide to the island of Bohol, quoting one of her Italian clients. “These are giant breasts.” On the top of one of the thousand hills, it seems as if only a sex-mad man could have made that remark.
The Chocolate Hills, so named by a nameless tourist, are covered in a thin green coat of scrub vegetation. They look like hills, the way a child would draw them, a series of stolid sinusoidal curves marching forward into a socialist utopia.
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