Jeepney style!
November 03, 2004
Romblon Island
Yet again, it was an early start to the day - I caught the first jeepney to San Agustin, in order to make the early pumpboat bound for Romblon. The journey was long and bumpy…but conditions that would be unacceptable on public transport in the UK, feel like a bit of a novelty when the scenery is so visually pleasing. I surprised myself when the little girl next to me decided to check what she had for breakfast by depositing it on the floor between our feet…instead of precipitating an almost inevitable domino effect around the bench-seating, I merely gave a sympathetic smile to her parents and continued watching the world go by. Living with ‘basic facilities’ and an increasing repertoire of unknown nutrition, certainly makes for a stronger stomach!
A pleasant crossing to Romblon town, brought us into a picturesque and bustling harbour. I made my way to the Romblon Plaza Hotel where I booked into a spacious room with air-con and…cable tv. A cooling shower and a lazy couple of hours watching a Scwarzenegger film (personal crusade against Colombian terrorist – any title suggestions, as I missed the start?) saw off the midday sun and I made my way over to the tourist information centre at the imposing Provincial Capitol building…only to find it closed on Sundays. Unperturbed, as I had planned to spend a couple of days here anyway, I left my fact-finding for the following day and went to find the internet café and some food at the recommended Jak’s bar. Yet again, both premises were closed and I settled for finding some form of amusement instead. The Lonely Planet had suggested that the only way to see the island was to hire a motorbike for the day…it seemed I was left with little choice and I eventually found one at an out-of-town beach resort. Despite a lifelong fear of two-wheeled machines (I cite several near-death experiences on push-bikes and an unfortunate tumble on the second lap of my virgin motorbiking experience at Lightwater Valley as a 12-year old!), I asked the guy to show me how to ride the heavy-looking Honda. Eventually, after a few stalls and wobbles, I got underway and promised to return in four hours with an undamaged machine. Now I know my mother’s reading this, so I’ll say that the Philippines is probably one of the safest places to learn to ride or drive anything – for a start there’s very little traffic and, secondly, the roads are far too uneven to contemplate opening the throttle to terminal velocity. Just to put your mind at ease, I didn’t get above 30km/h the whole time…okay? ;-) This of course, didn’t stop me feeling like Denis Hopper or Peter Fonda as I ‘cruised’ down beachside roads and up tree-lined tracks. It was nice to be master of my own direction and not be clinging like a child to someone else’s back.
I stopped at Kilometre Two – the centre of the island’s formerly thriving marble-cutting industry. Unfortunately, the market for their exquisitely crafted goods has long since crashed and the number of islanders now making a decent living from the trade has dwindled to just a handful. I also stopped off at a deserted beach resort for a paddle and a swim, realising ruefully that I hadn’t brought my snorkel and mask for the clear waters. At a nearby bar, whilst enjoying a San Miguel and a tuna sandwich, I met a couple of English ex-pats, David and Bob. David, it turned out, owns the local internet café…which just happens to run on a wireless network. If I could have named a place in the world, least likely to have wireless internet access, Romblon would probably have been it…full of surprises this place. I left them with a promise to pop into the café and have a drink later. As I headed back up the coast to return my steed, I felt a worrying lack of power heading up a steep hill…sure enough, two hundred metres further along the road, I coasted to a standstill. I’d only gone and run out of petrol…much to the amusement of the family whose house I’d stopped outside. With a little sign-language, and much laughter, I managed to ascertain that there was someone selling bottles of petrol just ten minutes walk up the road. I think Filipinos must walk very slowly because, after less than 5 minutes of sweaty striding, I came upon a motley collection of coke and sprite bottles containing a dangerous-looking, irn bru-coloured liquid. For 32pesos, I bought a 1litre bottle and hoped it would be enough to see me home. The rest of the journey proved to be uneventful and I was able to return the bike, to its owner’s visible relief, unscratched – and unharmed myself. A short ride back into town and I holed myself up in my sweetly air-conditioned room to cool down and clean off the grime of my ‘epic’ motorbike adventure. Later, I ate lomi soup at the imaginatively named ‘Romblon Shopping Centre Eatery – a characterful, if somewhat-basic greasy spoon next to the market. On the way back, I could see in the gathering gloom that preparations were underway for a Halloween fiesta in the plaza. They don’t do things by half when they have a party here, and I wasn’t surprised to find myself staring at the ceiling at 2am wondering what time proceedings would come to an end.
A pleasant crossing to Romblon town, brought us into a picturesque and bustling harbour. I made my way to the Romblon Plaza Hotel where I booked into a spacious room with air-con and…cable tv. A cooling shower and a lazy couple of hours watching a Scwarzenegger film (personal crusade against Colombian terrorist – any title suggestions, as I missed the start?) saw off the midday sun and I made my way over to the tourist information centre at the imposing Provincial Capitol building…only to find it closed on Sundays. Unperturbed, as I had planned to spend a couple of days here anyway, I left my fact-finding for the following day and went to find the internet café and some food at the recommended Jak’s bar. Yet again, both premises were closed and I settled for finding some form of amusement instead. The Lonely Planet had suggested that the only way to see the island was to hire a motorbike for the day…it seemed I was left with little choice and I eventually found one at an out-of-town beach resort. Despite a lifelong fear of two-wheeled machines (I cite several near-death experiences on push-bikes and an unfortunate tumble on the second lap of my virgin motorbiking experience at Lightwater Valley as a 12-year old!), I asked the guy to show me how to ride the heavy-looking Honda. Eventually, after a few stalls and wobbles, I got underway and promised to return in four hours with an undamaged machine. Now I know my mother’s reading this, so I’ll say that the Philippines is probably one of the safest places to learn to ride or drive anything – for a start there’s very little traffic and, secondly, the roads are far too uneven to contemplate opening the throttle to terminal velocity. Just to put your mind at ease, I didn’t get above 30km/h the whole time…okay? ;-) This of course, didn’t stop me feeling like Denis Hopper or Peter Fonda as I ‘cruised’ down beachside roads and up tree-lined tracks. It was nice to be master of my own direction and not be clinging like a child to someone else’s back.
I stopped at Kilometre Two – the centre of the island’s formerly thriving marble-cutting industry. Unfortunately, the market for their exquisitely crafted goods has long since crashed and the number of islanders now making a decent living from the trade has dwindled to just a handful. I also stopped off at a deserted beach resort for a paddle and a swim, realising ruefully that I hadn’t brought my snorkel and mask for the clear waters. At a nearby bar, whilst enjoying a San Miguel and a tuna sandwich, I met a couple of English ex-pats, David and Bob. David, it turned out, owns the local internet café…which just happens to run on a wireless network. If I could have named a place in the world, least likely to have wireless internet access, Romblon would probably have been it…full of surprises this place. I left them with a promise to pop into the café and have a drink later. As I headed back up the coast to return my steed, I felt a worrying lack of power heading up a steep hill…sure enough, two hundred metres further along the road, I coasted to a standstill. I’d only gone and run out of petrol…much to the amusement of the family whose house I’d stopped outside. With a little sign-language, and much laughter, I managed to ascertain that there was someone selling bottles of petrol just ten minutes walk up the road. I think Filipinos must walk very slowly because, after less than 5 minutes of sweaty striding, I came upon a motley collection of coke and sprite bottles containing a dangerous-looking, irn bru-coloured liquid. For 32pesos, I bought a 1litre bottle and hoped it would be enough to see me home. The rest of the journey proved to be uneventful and I was able to return the bike, to its owner’s visible relief, unscratched – and unharmed myself. A short ride back into town and I holed myself up in my sweetly air-conditioned room to cool down and clean off the grime of my ‘epic’ motorbike adventure. Later, I ate lomi soup at the imaginatively named ‘Romblon Shopping Centre Eatery – a characterful, if somewhat-basic greasy spoon next to the market. On the way back, I could see in the gathering gloom that preparations were underway for a Halloween fiesta in the plaza. They don’t do things by half when they have a party here, and I wasn’t surprised to find myself staring at the ceiling at 2am wondering what time proceedings would come to an end.
November 02, 2004
Tablas
An early start next day to catch the 6am pump boat to Tablas island. Learning from the woeful looks and tossed cookies of the previous day’s travelling companions, I opted to sit on the roof again. This allowed me to keep my breakfast down and watch the sun crawl lazily into the sky. That mischievous charm of the Filipinos’ came to the fore once again – as the boat prepared to depart, one of the elderly gentlemen sat behind, loudly asked his companion (in English) what time the boat was arriving in Boracay. Not at all worried, having checked at the port about twenty times already, I turned round smiling to find three of them stifling giggles, eyeing me expectantly. We all cracked up laughing and for the rest of the journey, my new-found friends questioned me about my travels in the Philippines and we discussed the merits of the various islands. As the journey progressed, I found myself fascinated by the thick oily texture of the water…there seemed to be no pattern to the rising swells and deepening troughs and yet, somehow, our skipper seemed to guide us effortlessly through the path of least resistance. The spray remained at arm’s length throughout the journey and I could understand why the Filipinos are regarded amongst the world’s finest sailors. Once at Santa Fe, I caught the jeepney to Looc– a 23km journey over bumpy roads, winding through hilly passes and terraced rice fields. Looc, just inland from my day’s objective, the Looc Marine Sanctuary, turned out to be a thriving little market town. Accommodation was plentiful and I settled on the big, airy Marduke Hotel, purely on the basis that it had air-conditioning and I was sweating like a mare in foal. Stood in the shade, quaffing a much-needed bottle of Sprite, I was accosted by a dodgy looking character wearing shades and an LA Lakers basketball top. His English was excellent and I soon warmed to his affable, Del-boy character. He offered to guide me round the local sights and sort out the requisite boat and pass for the marine sanctuary…his banter was good, his price even better and I decided to take him on. An hour later, after a refreshing shower, Johnny Calowad came back to take me for breakfast (burger!) at a local restaurant. After sating my hunger, we chugged down to the pier in his funky-looking tricycle and boarded a rickety-looking pump boat out to the moored raft at the marine sanctuary. I spent an absorbing hour swimming around the protected reef – marvelling at giant orange and blue starfish; avoiding death-star sized sea-urchins and flirting with shoals of parrot fish and other, brightly-coloured species of every size and shape. The piece-de-resistance, however, was the giant clam bed. Clams the size of my head (yes, it is possible!) and of every shape and colour imaginable covered an area about the size of a football field…very surreal and very enticing. I kept wishing I was wearing scuba rather than my snorkel…I would have loved to have been able to stay down on the seabed and study them in more detail. Eventually, we chugged pack to the pier and juddered back to the Marduke – mindful of the saying about mad dogs, Englishmen and the midday sun. I retreated into the air-conditioned cocoon of my room and used the time to work on the computer in preparation for the relative civilisation of Romblon and the internet café the following day. Around 4pm, Johnny returned to escort me down to Roda Beach – a tranquil and serene spot, bordered by mangroves and crystal-clear water. As the sun sank, the crickets, birds and other inhabitants of the nearby swamp filled the air with a truly tropical symphony…once again, I felt like I’d discovered paradise. Sinking a San Miguel, Johnny and I chatted about his family – three children under 6 years old. He had coached league soccer for the province for several years, but had recently given up the commitment to spend more time with his children. He was very eager, still, to give something back to his community and had taken up coaching the local schoolchildren on Sundays instead. We moved on to the matter of the plundered natural resources of the Philippines…a subject he was passionate and well-informed about. He was demonstrably proud of his own town’s decision to protect the reef and clam beds…we both agreed that, as the beauty of the natural habitat is one of the Philippines biggest attractions, it was truly in the best interests of the populace and the administration to protect it. I explained to him that in the UK the few remaining areas of outstanding natural beauty were well-protected (for the most part), but unfortunately over-visited by the knowledgeable and unappreciated by the rest. The chances of finding a place like Roda, unspoilt and deserted in my home country are close to zero…having the place to ourselves was a gift worth appreciating. Then Johnny said something that really touched me…he confessed to not having watched and appreciated a sunset for two years…and then he thanked me for reminding him that the world was a beautiful place. I know how easy it can be to get mired in the mundane existence of daily life and I was glad that my visitor’s perspective had temporarily broken the spell for him. Still, without his local knowledge and eagerness to help, I may never have discovered the place and been able to share in its enchanting power. As he dropped me off at a restaurant, I was sad to see him go – I felt, again, like I had found the real Philippines and made a connection with someone whose life bears so very little resemblance to mine.
November 01, 2004
Welcome to the 'real' Philippines
The following morning, with my first hangover since Canada, I packed up and moved out. A ferry back to Caticlan on Panay was the first leg of the journey. After some hunting around, I discovered a boat that would take me to Carabao Island. It soon became apparent that this was no passenger ferry, but a cargo boat…loaded to the gills with supplies (beer, soft drinks, petrol and dog biscuits). This is the Philippines though so there was no shortage of passengers to take advantage of the ride. We sailed back past Boracay where a few of the passengers and some goods were off-loaded. Worryingly, there was quite a crowd gathered on the beach, waiting to be ferried aboard. Fortunately, the astute captain, decided that our heavily-laden boat was too crowded for any more and we set sail for Carabao, leaving a few disgruntled folk to wait for the next boat. The seas were pretty heavy…something that left me grateful for my late embarkation. Sat on the roof, I was in full view of both my luggage and, more importantly, the horizon. As the boat pitched and rolled in the dark, heavy water, those down below grew increasingly nauseous. Sitting in the cooling breeze, feeling the spray, a broad grin grew on my face. For the first time, I really felt like I was an intrepid traveller. There were no other tourists aboard and I felt like I was taking a voyage into the unknown. After two hours we arrived on the South side of Carabao Island. Rather than take a further hour round to San Jose in the boat, I jumped off with some other passengers and climbed aboard my first Jeepney. The little 1.3litre engine struggled up steep tracks and round tight bends with a full load of passengers and baggage. As we passed along avenues of coconut palms, through thick forest and by open rice paddies, I couldn’t suppress that grin again. Every turn in the road brought a clearing, populated by nipa huts and grazing Carabao (buffalo). Occasionally, groups of school children would jump out of the way of the speeding jeepney and stand staring at the giant white man, grinning maniacally out of the back door. After half an hour of reasonably bone-jarring and white-knuckle engine revving, we came to a halt in San Jose. Helpfully, the driver stopped right outside the only hotel, where I was able to secure a nipa hut for a negligible fee. After dumping my bags, I set about finding someone with a motorbike to take me around the island. My usual lucky streak kicked in nicely and the first guy I met was Pablo. At 25, he was the island’s chief electric engineer. His natty, purple motocross bike was ideal and we set off on a hair-raising, but thoroughly enjoyable trip around the island. Yah, boo sucks! to the health and safety…this was local transport at its best. There’s probably about 1km of paved roads on the island – the rest, little more than what we’d call footpaths in the countryside. Pablo showed me some beautiful untouched corners and, I have to say, road with the utmost care at all times. How his poor little arms must have felt after wrestling that bike up hill and down dale with me on the back, I’ll never know. Certainly, the dull ache in my thighs and knuckles after gripping the saddle and luggage rack must be something to go by. We stopped for lunch at the Carabao Beach resort – an idyllic, peaceful little spot, with white sand and views back over the sea to Boracay. The proprietress, Melanie, had lived with in Germany with her husband for 17 years and spoke excellent English. She served up seafood Bolognese with a side dish of pickled fish (the local equivalent of roll-mop herring with a healthy portion of fresh chillies) and a dessert of videoke. Eventually, after two relaxing hours we were on our way to Ngiriton cave at the island’s northern end. Unfortunately, when we arrived, it turned out the local tourist board and decided to develop the caves for ease of access to tourists – installing lights and hand-rails etc. – this meant that the cave was closed for the ongoing work. Nevertheless, the tour of the island itself was more than enough…I still couldn’t wipe the grin of my face as we flew down the hill back to San Jose, with the wind ruffling my hair (no laughing at the back!). Pablo and I sat on the beach for some time, talking about his family and his job and our shared love of music. I ran to pick up my cd player and let him listen to one of Dave’s trance mixes. He was suitably impressed, as a fellow dj would be, and asked if I’d write to him and send him the occasional cd. He was a thoroughly nice kid and I definitely intend to stay in touch with him…and maybe seem him again someday when I return to the Philippines. Long after he’d gone, I sat on the beach as the sun sank behind the island, enjoying the cooling breeze and listening to trance.
October 29, 2004
Bye-bye, Boracay
Well, eight days in Boracay is enough for anyone, methinks! A beautiful and beguiling place - it is, nevertheless, the party island of the Visayas. Don’t all gasp when I make a loose comparison between Boracay and Ibiza. Okay, so the wideboy tourists are Korean…and they’re nowhere near as odious as the British lager louts in San Antonio’s West End. Rather than a pumping house soundtrack, you’ll more likely hear someone warbling through Bon Jovi on the Videoke. The food is more barbeque than bistro and the accommodation lacks somewhat in finesse. However, life is made very easy for the numerous European tourists who come here. Bars are never more than 20ft away; restaurants and street-food vendors occupy every nook and crannie between the bars; convenience stores and internet cafes are easy to find; and cash machines actually exist here…even if you can only take out 5000 pesos in one go (then you put your card back in straight away and get some more!). Compared to the rest of the Philippines, Boracay is extortionately expensive…hence the predominance of Western and Korean tourists…and the odd smattering of well-to-do Filipinos. Regardless, a week on the Med’s white isle, could stretch to 2months in this place…and that includes the flights. I would certainly recommend Boracay to anyone who wishes to break themselves into Asia gently…particularly if English is your only language. My primary reason for leaving after a week, was that I was starting to put on (yet more!) weight…surprises, surprise! While the scuba diving was keeping me busy during the days, it was only too easy to eat, drink and be merry in the evenings…particularly with my new-found friends.
I managed to find some really sound people during my brief stay. Firstly, my diving instructor, Eric: At 42, he’s been living full-time in the Philippines for almost a year now. After our first day of diving, I stood him a couple of beers as we sat on the beach watching the first of many beautiful sunsets. Formerly an engineer with BMW, he’d gotten sick of the rat-race and tired of the cold weather and miserable people. As a diving enthusiast, he’d been coming to the Philippines for a while anyway and, with the lure of his long-term girlfriend pulling him back, it seems it was only a matter of time before he upped-sticks, sold up and left Europe. We share a lot of similar views about the state of western culture and the pleasures of Filipino life, and I immediately found myself warming to this most un-German of Germans. As the week progressed it became apparent that he was a very accomplished instructor…something that eased my introduction to the underwater world. At the end of my PADI Open Water course, I already knew I wanted to do an Advanced course. This involved 5 further dives (each in a different discipline): the wreck dive and the drift dive felt like true adventures. Winding round the rusting hull of an old fishing trawler, shadow boxing with clown fish and effortlessly gliding through schools of parrot fish, I felt like a bald, overweight Commander Bond in Thunderball. The drift dive was an exhilarating underwater rollercoaster – flying through scenery that I previously thought, only existed in Super Mario World. As the current whisks you along at speed, it’s hard not to pretend you’re Superman or veer into a flat roll like some kind of stunt pilot. Canny Eric, though, saved the best til last. After sundown on Wednesday, we headed out to the reef around Crocodile Island. Scubaed up and armed with powerful torches, we went on a night dive. The sheer exuberance of colour and the variety of underwater life was breath-taking. Eric also showed me how to cover my torch (you never turn it off, in case the bulb goes) and wave my hands, sparking an eruption of bioluminescence, produced my microscopic organisms. It was thirty minutes I will never forget – and made me think all the more about attaining a Divemaster qualification and perhaps instructing scuba for a living. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather do it nor an instructor I’d rather do it with and I just want to say a big thank you to Eric and hope that we’ll meet again some day.
Still, my diurnal activities are only half the story…My neighbours at Saigon beach resort were Sassa and Vanny on one side and crazy Canadian Dave and his (considerably less crazy) girlfriend on the other. Dave, it turns out, was on vacation from teaching English in Korea and couldn’t recommend it enough. Most nights he had gotten himself gigs playing his guitar (very well) at Charlh’s beach bar. Consequently, I didn’t really get to see much of him, although we did go and check him out a few times. His set consisted of the likes of David Gray and the Dave Matthews Band, interspersed with a few of his own tunes. My favourite was his comic take on a very weird British phenomenon he’d encountered on a visit to Blighty…the car boot sale ;-).
Sassa and Vanny, on the other hand, were my constant nocturnal companions. On the Friday (my second evening, after crashing early on the Thursday, due to an accumulation of sleep-loss), they had seen me swinging lazily in the hammock on my porch. I contend that I was happily reading (‘Birdsong’ by Sebastian Faulkes – brilliant!), but they suspected I must be lonely and invited me out on what was a bit of a family jamboree. Sassa comes from southern Germany, Vanny from nearby Panay Island. They too were on holiday from their roles as First Mate and Cook on board inter-continental container ships. As Panay is only a short distance by boat, Vanny had invited his brothers Dave and Donny over for the evening…all well and good, but the rest of his siblings and some of their offspring had decided to come and ‘meet the girlfriend’! In all there were ten of us and I think Sassa was overwhelmed with the sheer number of relatives, while Vanny was stressing because it wasn’t turning out as planned. Despite the language barriers (although Sassa and the three brothers spoke excellent English, the sisters and the kids weren’t quite so fluent), and the volume of the music in Wave nightclub, we all managed to get along great and a good time was had by all. I spent most of the evening trying to explain why I didn’t have a girlfriend or a wife and politely trying to refuse to dance. The Filipinos don’t take no for an answer though, so between short (sweaty) periods on the dance-floor, I also had to quell attempts by the brothers to fix me up with a girl. As Dave was telling me, large families are common and considered the norm in the Philippines. Getting married young and producing plenty of offspring is the best way to ensure that you’ll be well cared for in later life. Already long-married at the age of 27, Dave was soon to fly out to England to work in one of the hotels at Heathrow Airport, having recently completed a course in Tourism and Hotel Management. He had a very idealised picture of London – something I hope isn’t compromised by the noise and the grime when he gets there. It is, of course, relatively big money for a Filipino to work in the UK, but I was careful to remind him that the cost of living there is far higher too. I really hope he is able to progress in his career and send plenty of money back home to his family. The club itself was pretty cool – for a start it was underground and dimly lit (evoking memories of the Cross). Set into the walls were several enormous fish tanks, sporting barracuda and several, more aesthetically-pleasing species. At first, the music left a lot to be desired – the usual crappy mix of HipHop and R’n’B you’d expect to find on a Friday night in Dudley. However, as time passed – and lubricated by several bottles of the excellent local brew (San Miguel Pale Pilsen – no relation) – the Japanese DJ’s eclectic tastes veered towards house and even some techno. Grooving away to some heavy beats, lights flashing, moody face on (‘cos Techno’s serious, right Dave?) – I could have been anywhere in the world…then I woke up as two seriously hammered Korean girls careened into my sandaled feet. I made my excuses and left around midnight, with the prospect of scuba diving the next day. Before I left, I managed to swap e-mail addresses with Dave, with promises of sending him to some top night-spots in London when he’s over.
For the rest of the week, I whiled away many happy twilight hours supping beer with Vanny and Sassa on their porch. Vanny also introduced me to the delights of the barbequed street food that I’d been too wary to try before. Having a local guy around is certainly advantageous, as I found when I took them to my favourite fish restaurant (as suggested by Eric)…Vanny was able to negotiate far cheaper prices. One night, the three of us ate and drank to our hearts’ content for the princely sum of 520 pesos…
I truly enjoyed all the time I spent in their company – a very close couple, always laughing and joking around, but not so cloyingly touchy-feely that I felt at all like a gooseberry. Vanny’s irrepressible sense of humour was wont to surface, unbidden, at any moment – as you can see from the photos, there’s little he won’t do for a laugh. To date, I’ve found this light-hearted, don’t-take-me-too-seriously attitude a hallmark of Filipino guys. It’s a very fun-loving and welcoming society…and I suspect one of the reasons why Filipina women are renowned for their beauty is due to their smiling so much as children. School starts at 6am to avoid the oppressive midday heat, so in the afternoons the beach is dominated by scores of happily playing kids: laughing and splashing in the surf, playing keepy-uppy with improvised shuttlecocks or playing team sports like football or volleyball. Everywhere - smiling, laughing, shouting and refreshingly uncensored by parents. An important factor in this is that, away from the major cities at least, the Philippines are a very safe and unthreatening environment – for local children and foreign visitors alike.
One thing you can’t avoid in the Philippines is Karaoke – or Videoke as they prefer to call it here. Virtually every bar worth its salt has one somewhere – tucked in a corner or pride of place in the centre of the room. This brings me on to the final ingredient in my week of merry-making – Texas Jo. Having posted on the Lonely Planet forum to get some tips about Boracay, I’d received a reply from a girl making her way down from Daguemente – in serious need of sociable beers and English conversation. Jo turned out to be a vivacious and attractive Korean/American lawyer, hailing from Houston, Texas. On her first night in Boracay, she insisted on dragging the three of us to a karaoke bar after a few beers, despite professing to having no singing talent whatsoever. As you all know, I’m not averse to a little flagrant exhibitionism, so I was happily dragged. The fact that there was a 10,000peso prize also appealed and I felt that Frank (Sinatra) was with me that night. Sassa and Vanny weren’t quite so enthusiastic, but came along for the ride.
As the night wore on, it became apparent that the competition had been going on for some weeks and that all the finalists had won previous shows to secure their places in the final. I felt particularly hard done by, as my rendition of ‘My Way’ brought the house down and the standard of some of the actual competitors was pretty poor, to say the least. Far more upsetting, was seeing Jo bottle her attempt at La Bamba, thinking she might get thrown off the stage by a knowledgeable crowd. What a wuss! First night on the sauce and first English conversation in 3 weeks and she couldn’t even bring herself to sing one little song. Of course, I’d never say this to her face…not the biggest girl in the world, she still has various martial arts to her name and any girl who’s travelled around South America and China alone has my full respect!
Jo was taking an extended career break (she’d been on the road 17months already and wasn’t planning on going home until April) because ‘you don’t get vacation in the States’. At (now) 30, she saw this as her last opportunity to really travel before knuckling down to a working life. I guess in some respects I was slightly disappointed that I’d yet to find someone who was travelling for similar reasons to mine…but on reflection, it’s not people’s reasons for travelling that are important so much as the fact that they are doing it. It’s seldom that we really get to appreciate how different life can be on the other side of the world – surely anything that adds to our understanding is a good thing? I really hope I don’t become the cynical traveller that Jo prophesied – I want to see the world from a more innocent perspective. In the meantime, it was a pleasure to hang out with her and have a bit of banter and discussion with a very confident and self-assured individual.
On my final night in Boracay, Eric, Sassa, Vanny, Jo and I went for a few beers at a lush little beach-front bar, called Red Pirates. Run by an English girl and her local boyfriend (Jenny and Joey), its relaxed vibe and candle light was the perfect venue for a few cuba libras and some more San Miguel. Later, we moved on to the (much quieter) karaoke bar from the previous Saturday, and Jo demonstrated why she had been scared to take the stage previously. Vanny demonstrated a surprisingly mellow tone and sang several songs to applause from the floor. Eventually, around 1o’clock we rolled home, where I got the sudden urge to go night-swimming with my newly acquired snorkel and mask. Never straying deeper than arms reach, I skirted the shore sifting through shells and dead coral to find some souvenirs before my departure. Boracay was beautiful and very pleasant, but I was feeling the urge to move on and discover some more of the Philippine islands.
I managed to find some really sound people during my brief stay. Firstly, my diving instructor, Eric: At 42, he’s been living full-time in the Philippines for almost a year now. After our first day of diving, I stood him a couple of beers as we sat on the beach watching the first of many beautiful sunsets. Formerly an engineer with BMW, he’d gotten sick of the rat-race and tired of the cold weather and miserable people. As a diving enthusiast, he’d been coming to the Philippines for a while anyway and, with the lure of his long-term girlfriend pulling him back, it seems it was only a matter of time before he upped-sticks, sold up and left Europe. We share a lot of similar views about the state of western culture and the pleasures of Filipino life, and I immediately found myself warming to this most un-German of Germans. As the week progressed it became apparent that he was a very accomplished instructor…something that eased my introduction to the underwater world. At the end of my PADI Open Water course, I already knew I wanted to do an Advanced course. This involved 5 further dives (each in a different discipline): the wreck dive and the drift dive felt like true adventures. Winding round the rusting hull of an old fishing trawler, shadow boxing with clown fish and effortlessly gliding through schools of parrot fish, I felt like a bald, overweight Commander Bond in Thunderball. The drift dive was an exhilarating underwater rollercoaster – flying through scenery that I previously thought, only existed in Super Mario World. As the current whisks you along at speed, it’s hard not to pretend you’re Superman or veer into a flat roll like some kind of stunt pilot. Canny Eric, though, saved the best til last. After sundown on Wednesday, we headed out to the reef around Crocodile Island. Scubaed up and armed with powerful torches, we went on a night dive. The sheer exuberance of colour and the variety of underwater life was breath-taking. Eric also showed me how to cover my torch (you never turn it off, in case the bulb goes) and wave my hands, sparking an eruption of bioluminescence, produced my microscopic organisms. It was thirty minutes I will never forget – and made me think all the more about attaining a Divemaster qualification and perhaps instructing scuba for a living. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather do it nor an instructor I’d rather do it with and I just want to say a big thank you to Eric and hope that we’ll meet again some day.
Still, my diurnal activities are only half the story…My neighbours at Saigon beach resort were Sassa and Vanny on one side and crazy Canadian Dave and his (considerably less crazy) girlfriend on the other. Dave, it turns out, was on vacation from teaching English in Korea and couldn’t recommend it enough. Most nights he had gotten himself gigs playing his guitar (very well) at Charlh’s beach bar. Consequently, I didn’t really get to see much of him, although we did go and check him out a few times. His set consisted of the likes of David Gray and the Dave Matthews Band, interspersed with a few of his own tunes. My favourite was his comic take on a very weird British phenomenon he’d encountered on a visit to Blighty…the car boot sale ;-).
Sassa and Vanny, on the other hand, were my constant nocturnal companions. On the Friday (my second evening, after crashing early on the Thursday, due to an accumulation of sleep-loss), they had seen me swinging lazily in the hammock on my porch. I contend that I was happily reading (‘Birdsong’ by Sebastian Faulkes – brilliant!), but they suspected I must be lonely and invited me out on what was a bit of a family jamboree. Sassa comes from southern Germany, Vanny from nearby Panay Island. They too were on holiday from their roles as First Mate and Cook on board inter-continental container ships. As Panay is only a short distance by boat, Vanny had invited his brothers Dave and Donny over for the evening…all well and good, but the rest of his siblings and some of their offspring had decided to come and ‘meet the girlfriend’! In all there were ten of us and I think Sassa was overwhelmed with the sheer number of relatives, while Vanny was stressing because it wasn’t turning out as planned. Despite the language barriers (although Sassa and the three brothers spoke excellent English, the sisters and the kids weren’t quite so fluent), and the volume of the music in Wave nightclub, we all managed to get along great and a good time was had by all. I spent most of the evening trying to explain why I didn’t have a girlfriend or a wife and politely trying to refuse to dance. The Filipinos don’t take no for an answer though, so between short (sweaty) periods on the dance-floor, I also had to quell attempts by the brothers to fix me up with a girl. As Dave was telling me, large families are common and considered the norm in the Philippines. Getting married young and producing plenty of offspring is the best way to ensure that you’ll be well cared for in later life. Already long-married at the age of 27, Dave was soon to fly out to England to work in one of the hotels at Heathrow Airport, having recently completed a course in Tourism and Hotel Management. He had a very idealised picture of London – something I hope isn’t compromised by the noise and the grime when he gets there. It is, of course, relatively big money for a Filipino to work in the UK, but I was careful to remind him that the cost of living there is far higher too. I really hope he is able to progress in his career and send plenty of money back home to his family. The club itself was pretty cool – for a start it was underground and dimly lit (evoking memories of the Cross). Set into the walls were several enormous fish tanks, sporting barracuda and several, more aesthetically-pleasing species. At first, the music left a lot to be desired – the usual crappy mix of HipHop and R’n’B you’d expect to find on a Friday night in Dudley. However, as time passed – and lubricated by several bottles of the excellent local brew (San Miguel Pale Pilsen – no relation) – the Japanese DJ’s eclectic tastes veered towards house and even some techno. Grooving away to some heavy beats, lights flashing, moody face on (‘cos Techno’s serious, right Dave?) – I could have been anywhere in the world…then I woke up as two seriously hammered Korean girls careened into my sandaled feet. I made my excuses and left around midnight, with the prospect of scuba diving the next day. Before I left, I managed to swap e-mail addresses with Dave, with promises of sending him to some top night-spots in London when he’s over.
For the rest of the week, I whiled away many happy twilight hours supping beer with Vanny and Sassa on their porch. Vanny also introduced me to the delights of the barbequed street food that I’d been too wary to try before. Having a local guy around is certainly advantageous, as I found when I took them to my favourite fish restaurant (as suggested by Eric)…Vanny was able to negotiate far cheaper prices. One night, the three of us ate and drank to our hearts’ content for the princely sum of 520 pesos…
I truly enjoyed all the time I spent in their company – a very close couple, always laughing and joking around, but not so cloyingly touchy-feely that I felt at all like a gooseberry. Vanny’s irrepressible sense of humour was wont to surface, unbidden, at any moment – as you can see from the photos, there’s little he won’t do for a laugh. To date, I’ve found this light-hearted, don’t-take-me-too-seriously attitude a hallmark of Filipino guys. It’s a very fun-loving and welcoming society…and I suspect one of the reasons why Filipina women are renowned for their beauty is due to their smiling so much as children. School starts at 6am to avoid the oppressive midday heat, so in the afternoons the beach is dominated by scores of happily playing kids: laughing and splashing in the surf, playing keepy-uppy with improvised shuttlecocks or playing team sports like football or volleyball. Everywhere - smiling, laughing, shouting and refreshingly uncensored by parents. An important factor in this is that, away from the major cities at least, the Philippines are a very safe and unthreatening environment – for local children and foreign visitors alike.
One thing you can’t avoid in the Philippines is Karaoke – or Videoke as they prefer to call it here. Virtually every bar worth its salt has one somewhere – tucked in a corner or pride of place in the centre of the room. This brings me on to the final ingredient in my week of merry-making – Texas Jo. Having posted on the Lonely Planet forum to get some tips about Boracay, I’d received a reply from a girl making her way down from Daguemente – in serious need of sociable beers and English conversation. Jo turned out to be a vivacious and attractive Korean/American lawyer, hailing from Houston, Texas. On her first night in Boracay, she insisted on dragging the three of us to a karaoke bar after a few beers, despite professing to having no singing talent whatsoever. As you all know, I’m not averse to a little flagrant exhibitionism, so I was happily dragged. The fact that there was a 10,000peso prize also appealed and I felt that Frank (Sinatra) was with me that night. Sassa and Vanny weren’t quite so enthusiastic, but came along for the ride.
As the night wore on, it became apparent that the competition had been going on for some weeks and that all the finalists had won previous shows to secure their places in the final. I felt particularly hard done by, as my rendition of ‘My Way’ brought the house down and the standard of some of the actual competitors was pretty poor, to say the least. Far more upsetting, was seeing Jo bottle her attempt at La Bamba, thinking she might get thrown off the stage by a knowledgeable crowd. What a wuss! First night on the sauce and first English conversation in 3 weeks and she couldn’t even bring herself to sing one little song. Of course, I’d never say this to her face…not the biggest girl in the world, she still has various martial arts to her name and any girl who’s travelled around South America and China alone has my full respect!
Jo was taking an extended career break (she’d been on the road 17months already and wasn’t planning on going home until April) because ‘you don’t get vacation in the States’. At (now) 30, she saw this as her last opportunity to really travel before knuckling down to a working life. I guess in some respects I was slightly disappointed that I’d yet to find someone who was travelling for similar reasons to mine…but on reflection, it’s not people’s reasons for travelling that are important so much as the fact that they are doing it. It’s seldom that we really get to appreciate how different life can be on the other side of the world – surely anything that adds to our understanding is a good thing? I really hope I don’t become the cynical traveller that Jo prophesied – I want to see the world from a more innocent perspective. In the meantime, it was a pleasure to hang out with her and have a bit of banter and discussion with a very confident and self-assured individual.
On my final night in Boracay, Eric, Sassa, Vanny, Jo and I went for a few beers at a lush little beach-front bar, called Red Pirates. Run by an English girl and her local boyfriend (Jenny and Joey), its relaxed vibe and candle light was the perfect venue for a few cuba libras and some more San Miguel. Later, we moved on to the (much quieter) karaoke bar from the previous Saturday, and Jo demonstrated why she had been scared to take the stage previously. Vanny demonstrated a surprisingly mellow tone and sang several songs to applause from the floor. Eventually, around 1o’clock we rolled home, where I got the sudden urge to go night-swimming with my newly acquired snorkel and mask. Never straying deeper than arms reach, I skirted the shore sifting through shells and dead coral to find some souvenirs before my departure. Boracay was beautiful and very pleasant, but I was feeling the urge to move on and discover some more of the Philippine islands.
October 24, 2004
Scuba Diving - the door to a whole new world
Well, it may be Sunday, but even in the catholic Philippines, PADI certification and tide wait for no man. After three days of classroom, practical sessions in shallow water and 5 dives, I am now a qualified Open Water Diver. The classroom stuff wasn't difficult, but only the biggest idiot wouldn't pay attention when it's something on which your life can depend at 25m beneath the surface. I appear to have taken to diving like a...er...fish? This really surprised me as I've never been a strong swimmer and thought the chances of my panicking at uncomfortable, underwater situatuons were reasonably high. However, logic dictates that panicking is only going to cause more trouble...so you stay calm.
In a totally different way to the alien nature of turning up in a foreign country, the underwater world is incomparable to anything else. You see it on TV or in films...and you may even have been snorkelling - but it's not until you get away from the bouyancy fluctuations of the surface depths that everything starts to make sense. This lumbering 115kg mass of bone and muscle (and obviously a teensy-weensy bit of fat!) encumbered in about 20kg of dive gear and weights, does not locomote particularly fluidly or easily on land. Attach a pair of fins (flippers to the uninitiated) and cover with 15 metres of brine, and suddenly the world floats by effortlessly. And what a world - everything swaying and pulsing. Only fluid motions allowed - even the darting of frightened fish or the sharp closing of plant tendrils seem to have a languid smoothness unseen on terra firma. I'm totally bewitched by the ocean floor and can see myself really getting into the whole scuba thing. I've already signed up to my advanced open water certificate, which will include a wreck dive and a night dive.
Apart from the diving, I've mostly been eating and reading. The food here is different but every bit as appealing as Korea's. I've limited myself to one piece of junk food - after the tiring session in the internet cafe the other night. The rest of the time I eat...fish. Squid...Lapu-Lapu...tiger prawns...shrimp...blue marlin...tuna...ad infinitum! I typical meal consists of a small fish (would make 2 fillets about 2inches by 6inches) broiled in a soup stock, a (Fin) handful of tiger prawns and a couple of squid (these latter two choice, grilled with garlic. On the side you'd have two cups of garlic rice and a drink (eg a whole green coconut). With friendly and attentive service the bill comes to 220pesos...or 2pounds 20pence...aah...life's hard.
Back with more, later in the week. Take care, y'all and stay in touch.
In a totally different way to the alien nature of turning up in a foreign country, the underwater world is incomparable to anything else. You see it on TV or in films...and you may even have been snorkelling - but it's not until you get away from the bouyancy fluctuations of the surface depths that everything starts to make sense. This lumbering 115kg mass of bone and muscle (and obviously a teensy-weensy bit of fat!) encumbered in about 20kg of dive gear and weights, does not locomote particularly fluidly or easily on land. Attach a pair of fins (flippers to the uninitiated) and cover with 15 metres of brine, and suddenly the world floats by effortlessly. And what a world - everything swaying and pulsing. Only fluid motions allowed - even the darting of frightened fish or the sharp closing of plant tendrils seem to have a languid smoothness unseen on terra firma. I'm totally bewitched by the ocean floor and can see myself really getting into the whole scuba thing. I've already signed up to my advanced open water certificate, which will include a wreck dive and a night dive.
Apart from the diving, I've mostly been eating and reading. The food here is different but every bit as appealing as Korea's. I've limited myself to one piece of junk food - after the tiring session in the internet cafe the other night. The rest of the time I eat...fish. Squid...Lapu-Lapu...tiger prawns...shrimp...blue marlin...tuna...ad infinitum! I typical meal consists of a small fish (would make 2 fillets about 2inches by 6inches) broiled in a soup stock, a (Fin) handful of tiger prawns and a couple of squid (these latter two choice, grilled with garlic. On the side you'd have two cups of garlic rice and a drink (eg a whole green coconut). With friendly and attentive service the bill comes to 220pesos...or 2pounds 20pence...aah...life's hard.
Back with more, later in the week. Take care, y'all and stay in touch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)