Locals struggling up the steep slippery slopes after the rain
November 14, 2004
Sapa - The Misty Mountains
The train journey into the north was a far cry from the British Rail Sleeper to Fort William – but an adventure all the same. The rolling stock was a curious mixture of communist back-to-basics and technology…battered, unpainted metal carriages with narrow corridors and antique sliding doors versus digital trip computers displaying speed, projected arrival time and ice-cool air-conditioning. There are several classes of accommodation on Vietnamese trains – and two levels of pricing for each: tourist or local. The hardy (and hard-up) can opt for a very cheap and very basic hard bench seat – think British park bench with bright fluorescent lighting and windows covered by protective metal cages. Next level up are the soft bench seats – think British park bench with a thin sliver of foam covered in non-absorbent vinyl. Reclining seats – a little like the sleeping lounges on ferry boats, but without climate control or sound-proofing. Finally, the two sleeper classes: hard and soft. Hard sleeper carriages pack six coffin sized bunks into each air-conditioned compartment. The mattresses would make an anorexic roll-mat jealous with their sparseness of padding and the berths themselves are just long enough to taunt a tall man into thinking he can lie down at full stretch – only to realise that he can’t! I felt fortunate to find myself in the top bunk of a soft sleeper carriage. Added benefits over hard sleeper include only four berths to a compartment, a thick (but still vinyl-covered) mattress and a free bread roll and bottle of water (gasp!) The berths however are still, tortuously, too short…I found myself wedged in with feet flat on one wall and top of head gently pressing against the other. However, the slightest lateral head movement brought it into contact with the heavy duty chain attaching the bunk to the wall. Eventually, a recovery style position on alternating sides allowed me to take an hour’s kip at a time, before pins and needles required swapping. The journey was surprisingly smooth and quiet – probably mainly to do with an average speed of about 50mph – and I was able to read only a few pages of Mark Twain’s ‘The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’ before the swaying motion and rhythmic percussion of the passing miles sent me off to the Land of Nod. Apart from the inherent problems of being a big man in a small man’s land, I was woken several times during the night by my poor travelling companions as the locomotive sound of my snoring became too much. Anybody who’s suffered the dubious pleasure of sharing a room with me and my rhinoceros-being-slaughtered-with-a-blunt-spoon night noises, should spare a thought for my three roomies…imagine the reverberation in a 6ftx9ftx6ft metal box…ouch!
We arrived in Lao Cai as dawn was struggling to break on the mist-shrouded mountains. One pleasing similarity between the Euston-Fort William and Hanoi-Lao Cai routes, is that marvellous sensation of having left the hustle and bustle of the city behind to wake up breathing fresh mountain air and drinking in the alpine scenery. A ‘cosy’ ride into the hills in a tiny clapped-out minibus, saw us arrive in a cool and misty Sapa in time for an early breakfast. I got talking to a trio of English Northerners – Steve and Jonny were mates from Liverpool and Burnley; Fleur another Scouser who’d met this pair of likely lads on the train. We hit it off pretty well from the start and I was disappointed to discover their tour of Sapa was a day shorter than mine and on a different route. Over breakfast we managed to swap e-mails and itineraries, with a view to meeting up in Halong Bay or back in Hanoi if we could.
Not long after they left, I learnt my first lesson about package tours in Vietnam: You don’t always get what you’ve asked or paid for…:-( My guide turned out to be an affable young chap called Huom. The first thing I discovered after his name was that he was very sorry, but the requisite permit for our third village home-stay had not been forthcoming. We would therefore be trekking only for three days and I would be spending my last night in Sapa in the hotel. I was a little irritated as I had deliberately signed up for the 4 day hard trek as I wanted to give myself a good workout after all the beach-bumming in the Philippines. I had also wanted to spend an extra night with a different ethnic minority family, as my other reason for coming to Sapa had been to meet the hill tribes and see how they lived…as I was to discover, the extra night would make little difference. I was left waiting for an hour with no real idea of what was happening next (a familiar feeling after a few days in Vietnam, believe me) and wondering when I’d be able to take my promised hot shower. Huom eventually returned to tell me that we would be leaving in 15 minutes and seemed a little flummoxed by my request for a shower…it seemed like he had very little idea of what was going on either. He explained that my tour company in Hanoi paid the hotel to arrange tours…and that he merely guided the tourists according to the hotel’s instructions. I could see there was no point in shooting the messenger, but I was definitely given the impression that the management of the Royal Hotel don’t give a rat’s ass about customers once they’ve taken their cash. Fortunately, Jonny and Steve came to the rescue and allowed me to use the shower in their room – so I didn’t hum too badly when it came to meeting the rest of my tour group.
There were only five of us including Huom, which I was very pleased about…I didn’t want to be part of a dozen-strong gaggle of ‘round-eyes’ barrelling through the villages and disturbing the locals. Lesson number two about package tours in Vietnam: you’ll never disturb the locals en route…they’re ready and waiting to ambush you to try and make money from you. As I and my fellow travellers were to discover, three days of ‘You buy this from me…you buy that from me (I’ve already got one!) ….you buy two…you have brother? Buy for brother….buy for friend’ gets a bit wearing. I won’t claim to have the patience of a saint, but you could not ask to meet two nicer, gentler folk than Jamie and Melanie from Alaska…and even they were a bit sick of it by the time we returned to Sapa. The other member of our party seemed to be spared most of the hassle by dint of his English skills. Hamada-San was a logistics manager from Japan and, while Melanie, Jamie and I were able to make intelligible conversation with him (with a little effort on our part), seeing non-native speakers trying to sell stuff in English to another non-native speaker was actually quite comical at times. Prior to our trek, our Japanese companion had completed a hard 3-day assault on the summit of Fansipan (at 3143m, Vietnam’s highest mountain). He certainly had the appearance of an office worker rather than a hardened outdoor enthusiast and, despite his admirable stoicism, by the end of day one it was apparent that he was finding the going tough. Hamada-San’s natural reticence and growing fatigue meant that, increasingly I found myself in stride and conversation with the Alaskans. In contrast to Hamada, it was obvious that Melanie and Jamie made regular forays into the spectacular outdoors of their homeland. They made excellent company for the road with a good level of light banter and plenty of tales and good humour. They had only recently married and, while it was obvious that they were very much in love, they made me feel as welcome and included as an old school-friend. I’ve been struggling to find words that do them justice, as I took such pleasure in their company and intelligent conversation. I think what it boils down to, simply, is that they are plain, salt-of-the-earth, good people…and I look forward to our paths crossing again in the future. From very different backgrounds and refreshingly different perspectives we all seemed to share common views on the benefits of travelling and the necessity (at least to try) to understand other cultures. Melanie’s job as a flight attendant with Alaska Airlines and Jamie’s occupation as a house-builder (a seasonal activity in their neck of the woods!) mean that they are both able to take extended vacations. If you can take the time off, trips to South-East Asia and South / Central America instead of mundane all-inclusive package holidays are certainly more cost-effective and mind-stimulating. You certainly get to meet a different breed of traveller…
After our initial uncertainty (it turned out the other three had been sold different tours too!), Huom turned out to be an excellent guide. His English was excellent, having spent 4 years studying in Hanoi, and his knowledge of the local paths and tracks meant we followed an interesting and varied route down into the valleys of the local hill tribes. He kept up a constant stream of information about the origins of the various tribes and their customs, whilst taking us along at a nice steady pace in the growing heat. We made stops for drinks and food at various shady shacks along the way…and soon came to realise that a stationary group of tourists is like a magnet to the quaintly dressed girls and women of the local tribes. For the early part of the day we encountered mostly H’mong tribeswomen in their indigo dyed traditional dress. I understand that the villagers have adapted their lifestyle to make the best of their situation, so it would be unfair to blame them for wanting to sell their wares to as many tourists as possible. What was difficult to accept was their hardcore persistence…double-glazing and timeshare salesmen could learn the true meaning of hard-sell by taking lessons from these girls! Saying, ‘No, thank you,’ twenty-five times to each and every member of the twenty-strong scrum that descends on you in every village is taxing – on both patience and energy. Still, the sun was shining, the scenery spectacular and the company excellent – so the novelty factor took plenty of time to wear off. The sun was shining so hard, in fact, that I soon began to worry about my lack of sun-block (having not had chance to apply my hi-tech gunk after my rushed shower earlier on). I thought I could kill two birds with one stone by purchasing one of the beautifully embroidered local shirts from one of the hard-sellers. Namely, to cover up my arms and to put off new vendors by showing that I’d already bought something. As a ploy it worked only partially…I was too late to stop my arms from burning, although I suppose it would have been worse without the shirt…and the villagers only tried harder to sell me stuff – probably, as Melanie suggested, because they thought I was an easy target, having succumbed once already. The best part of the joke was still to come though…later, having stripped off my sweaty shirt, it became apparent that some of the shirt had stayed with me…namely the indigo dye! The salt in my copious perspiration had also caused the dye to set on my skin…so I actually spent much of my first two weeks in Vietnam looking like a smurf…much to everyone else’s amusement.
Disappointingly, our first day’s trek came to an end at 3pm – the supposed 18km of hard trekking we had been expecting probably wasn’t more than 12km of gentle hill-walking…certainly not what we’d signed up for. Our next bug-bear was our home-stay. Expectations involved staying in a traditional house with a family, sharing a meal with them and perhaps sitting round the fire talking with our guide translating for us. Reality was a purpose built guest-house (admittedly in traditional style, but around 4 times the size) with 12 mattresses, separate meals for us (tour group on porch) and them (guide and family in kitchen) and being left to entertain ourselves while they watched television. Once again, I appreciate that the locals’ life has been adapted to meet tourism demand…but it was, nevertheless, disappointing. Instead of gaining a true insight into the lives of the local people, we merely discovered that they were very good at making money out of tourists. Melanie and Jamie taught me to play cribbage and, certainly, the hours didn’t drag in their company but (as Jamie remarked) we could have been playing in Anchorage or Harrogate…why travel to the Vietnamese mountains? Dinner was certainly delicious and there was plenty of it, but it would have been nice to break bread with our hosts…
Day two was very similar to the first day, although the tracks were a little treacherous after overnight rain. A filling breakfast of pancakes suited me to a T…although Hamada didn’t look too impressed. Asians tend to eat noodles for breakfast and he only managed to force about half a pancake down before giving up. He seemed unusually tired and, when questioned, admitted that he’d been kept awake by some horrendous snoring…I felt extremely guilty eating his share of breakfast and knowing I’d prevented him from getting some much needed sleep. Still, I wasn’t about to let good food go to waste! The scenery was, once again, breath-taking but we were forced to take to the road for a long stretch to avoid some dangerously steep downhill sections, which the rain had turned into death slides. The road into the valley was in the process of being widened and properly paved, so the abundance of digging machinery and fume-belching lorries didn’t do much for the aesthetic appeal of the place. Once again our home-stay was disappointingly commercial and the over-whelming feeling was not one of mutual understanding…more like prey being circled by predators.
Our final day on the trail was by far the best in terms of both local interaction and hard physical effort. We crossed the valley and climbed up the other side to see a village of the Dao minority. They seemed far less interested in selling us stuff and we were even able to elicit shy smiles from some of the local kids instead of having to fend them off. Village life seemed to continue around us - with the daily food preparation and cleaning chores being carried out alongside weekend activities such as maintenance on their wooden houses and repairs to agricultural machinery (equivalent to banging up a couple of shelves and washing the car?).
Back in the valley just nicely for mid-day, we began the long and arduous climb back up to the road as the sun beat down fiercely on our bowed heads. Jamie and Melanie left me for dead as their mountain-ready legs bore them steadily up the winding path. Unable to sustain their perpetual motion, I was forced to take ever-more-frequent, gasping and sweaty breaks. Still, Hamada-San was the true hero…after his exertions on Fansipan, no sleep and a breakfast consisting of the juice of two lemons he forced his tired limbs up the slope only fifteen minutes behind me.
After lunch, it seemed like we waited forever for our Jeep to come and pick us up. While I was content to rest and allow lunch to settle, Jamie and Melanie found themselves drawn into a game of shuttlecock with some local girls. The kids were genuinely enjoying themselves and, while they made an easy sale of the shuttlecocks when the game ended, I don’t believe that was their ultimate motive.
The jeep ride back to Sapa over the un-constructed road was one of my least favourite automotive experiences ever…ranking pretty closely to a certain trip down the A30 a few years ago. Poor suspension, underpowered engine, exhaust fumes and heat contributed to a fairly nauseating experience…add the possibility of certain death from the steep drops on the left side (just as well my weight was on the right!) and you can understand that we were pretty relieved to return to the hotel in Sapa.
Of course, our relief only lasted long enough for us to work out that the hotel didn’t have any rooms for us. I wasn’t so fussed about that particular hotel…I was supposed to be staying in a village anyway. Jamie and Mel, on the other hand, were pretty disgruntled. Having stayed in the hotel the night prior to our trek, they had reserved and paid for the same room again to keep the beautiful view. They had even left their passports at the hotel and paid extra as this was a Saturday night. The attitude of the hotel staff, once again, left a lot to be desired. We finally got rooms at a nearby hotel and found a decent restaurant for a bite to eat. After dinner, in order to learn a little more about the local culture, we headed down to a bar with a floor show of traditional hill-tribe dancing. I’m no expert in the dancing customs of North West Vietnam, but I’m pretty sure the show was just an elaborate hoax to make more money from tourists. Some of the miming and the sheer lack of effort from the participants brought embarrassed grimaces and even sniggers of derision from the audience. The knowing smirks exchanged by the dancing girls seemed to add credence to the hoax theory and we left after twenty minutes, opting to spend our tourist dollar elsewhere.
The following day, with nothing to do until my night-train left at 8.50, I took a wander around the market and purchased a new ethnic shirt – this time mostly white, with some nice embroidered detail. I felt particularly chuffed with my bartering skills – walking all the way round the market, trying on twenty or so shirts until I found one that fitted at the right price. The food market was teeming with every kind of plant and animal as you’ll see from the photos…but I had arranged to meet Melanie and Jamie at a café for lunch, so passed up the exotic fare on offer. Their experience with the Royal Hotel had deteriorated further since the previous evening, with some screaming harpy haranguing them over breakfast for having the audacity to ask for their money back after being put in an inferior hotel. Contrary to everywhere else I’d been in Asia (and thus far in Vietnam), customer service and good manners seemed to be sadly lacking here – something we attributed to the sheer volume of tourists who come…if you upset the odd few, it doesn’t matter as you’re still making money hand over fist.
Melanie and Jamie were catching an earlier train to Hanoi, so we parted later that afternoon after a farewell beer. E-mails were exchanged - and mutual invitations to visit too. Characteristic of their generosity of spirit, they kindly gave me their (brand-spanking new!) copy of the Cambodia Lonely Planet as they knew I was heading there after Vietnam. Whatever else happened in Sapa, I’m glad to have met these two and I look forward to introducing them to you guys when they’re over in England. I’m already planning an Alaskan leg on my next trip to check out the hiking and climbing near their home. Thanks guys…you were the one saving grace of Sapa :-).
After they left, I buried my nose in Huck Finn…Huom had noticed me reading it the other day and had professed to it being one of his favourite books in Vietnamese, so I had promised to give it to him before I left. I can only imagine how he’s coping with the colloquialisms of the Mississippi basin!
On the journey back to Hanoi, I lay reflecting on my Sapa experience. I was pretty disillusioned…I hadn’t expected the commercialism to be so rampant, nor the locals to be so affected by the tourist influx. I was glad to have met Melanie and Jamie and to have seen the beautiful scenery and the equally beautiful people, but I couldn’t recommend my experience to a friend. A better option might have been to head up to the hills under my own steam and book a two day trek. This would have minimized the commercial overkill and the chances of being ripped off by cynical tour operators. In the back of my mind I was desperately hoping that the rest of Vietnam would not be so sullied.
Sorry if this hasn’t made particularly pleasant reading, guys. It was my first (partially) negative experience since leaving home, but I want to give a full and honest account of my travels …warts ‘n’ all.
We arrived in Lao Cai as dawn was struggling to break on the mist-shrouded mountains. One pleasing similarity between the Euston-Fort William and Hanoi-Lao Cai routes, is that marvellous sensation of having left the hustle and bustle of the city behind to wake up breathing fresh mountain air and drinking in the alpine scenery. A ‘cosy’ ride into the hills in a tiny clapped-out minibus, saw us arrive in a cool and misty Sapa in time for an early breakfast. I got talking to a trio of English Northerners – Steve and Jonny were mates from Liverpool and Burnley; Fleur another Scouser who’d met this pair of likely lads on the train. We hit it off pretty well from the start and I was disappointed to discover their tour of Sapa was a day shorter than mine and on a different route. Over breakfast we managed to swap e-mails and itineraries, with a view to meeting up in Halong Bay or back in Hanoi if we could.
Not long after they left, I learnt my first lesson about package tours in Vietnam: You don’t always get what you’ve asked or paid for…:-( My guide turned out to be an affable young chap called Huom. The first thing I discovered after his name was that he was very sorry, but the requisite permit for our third village home-stay had not been forthcoming. We would therefore be trekking only for three days and I would be spending my last night in Sapa in the hotel. I was a little irritated as I had deliberately signed up for the 4 day hard trek as I wanted to give myself a good workout after all the beach-bumming in the Philippines. I had also wanted to spend an extra night with a different ethnic minority family, as my other reason for coming to Sapa had been to meet the hill tribes and see how they lived…as I was to discover, the extra night would make little difference. I was left waiting for an hour with no real idea of what was happening next (a familiar feeling after a few days in Vietnam, believe me) and wondering when I’d be able to take my promised hot shower. Huom eventually returned to tell me that we would be leaving in 15 minutes and seemed a little flummoxed by my request for a shower…it seemed like he had very little idea of what was going on either. He explained that my tour company in Hanoi paid the hotel to arrange tours…and that he merely guided the tourists according to the hotel’s instructions. I could see there was no point in shooting the messenger, but I was definitely given the impression that the management of the Royal Hotel don’t give a rat’s ass about customers once they’ve taken their cash. Fortunately, Jonny and Steve came to the rescue and allowed me to use the shower in their room – so I didn’t hum too badly when it came to meeting the rest of my tour group.
There were only five of us including Huom, which I was very pleased about…I didn’t want to be part of a dozen-strong gaggle of ‘round-eyes’ barrelling through the villages and disturbing the locals. Lesson number two about package tours in Vietnam: you’ll never disturb the locals en route…they’re ready and waiting to ambush you to try and make money from you. As I and my fellow travellers were to discover, three days of ‘You buy this from me…you buy that from me (I’ve already got one!) ….you buy two…you have brother? Buy for brother….buy for friend’ gets a bit wearing. I won’t claim to have the patience of a saint, but you could not ask to meet two nicer, gentler folk than Jamie and Melanie from Alaska…and even they were a bit sick of it by the time we returned to Sapa. The other member of our party seemed to be spared most of the hassle by dint of his English skills. Hamada-San was a logistics manager from Japan and, while Melanie, Jamie and I were able to make intelligible conversation with him (with a little effort on our part), seeing non-native speakers trying to sell stuff in English to another non-native speaker was actually quite comical at times. Prior to our trek, our Japanese companion had completed a hard 3-day assault on the summit of Fansipan (at 3143m, Vietnam’s highest mountain). He certainly had the appearance of an office worker rather than a hardened outdoor enthusiast and, despite his admirable stoicism, by the end of day one it was apparent that he was finding the going tough. Hamada-San’s natural reticence and growing fatigue meant that, increasingly I found myself in stride and conversation with the Alaskans. In contrast to Hamada, it was obvious that Melanie and Jamie made regular forays into the spectacular outdoors of their homeland. They made excellent company for the road with a good level of light banter and plenty of tales and good humour. They had only recently married and, while it was obvious that they were very much in love, they made me feel as welcome and included as an old school-friend. I’ve been struggling to find words that do them justice, as I took such pleasure in their company and intelligent conversation. I think what it boils down to, simply, is that they are plain, salt-of-the-earth, good people…and I look forward to our paths crossing again in the future. From very different backgrounds and refreshingly different perspectives we all seemed to share common views on the benefits of travelling and the necessity (at least to try) to understand other cultures. Melanie’s job as a flight attendant with Alaska Airlines and Jamie’s occupation as a house-builder (a seasonal activity in their neck of the woods!) mean that they are both able to take extended vacations. If you can take the time off, trips to South-East Asia and South / Central America instead of mundane all-inclusive package holidays are certainly more cost-effective and mind-stimulating. You certainly get to meet a different breed of traveller…
After our initial uncertainty (it turned out the other three had been sold different tours too!), Huom turned out to be an excellent guide. His English was excellent, having spent 4 years studying in Hanoi, and his knowledge of the local paths and tracks meant we followed an interesting and varied route down into the valleys of the local hill tribes. He kept up a constant stream of information about the origins of the various tribes and their customs, whilst taking us along at a nice steady pace in the growing heat. We made stops for drinks and food at various shady shacks along the way…and soon came to realise that a stationary group of tourists is like a magnet to the quaintly dressed girls and women of the local tribes. For the early part of the day we encountered mostly H’mong tribeswomen in their indigo dyed traditional dress. I understand that the villagers have adapted their lifestyle to make the best of their situation, so it would be unfair to blame them for wanting to sell their wares to as many tourists as possible. What was difficult to accept was their hardcore persistence…double-glazing and timeshare salesmen could learn the true meaning of hard-sell by taking lessons from these girls! Saying, ‘No, thank you,’ twenty-five times to each and every member of the twenty-strong scrum that descends on you in every village is taxing – on both patience and energy. Still, the sun was shining, the scenery spectacular and the company excellent – so the novelty factor took plenty of time to wear off. The sun was shining so hard, in fact, that I soon began to worry about my lack of sun-block (having not had chance to apply my hi-tech gunk after my rushed shower earlier on). I thought I could kill two birds with one stone by purchasing one of the beautifully embroidered local shirts from one of the hard-sellers. Namely, to cover up my arms and to put off new vendors by showing that I’d already bought something. As a ploy it worked only partially…I was too late to stop my arms from burning, although I suppose it would have been worse without the shirt…and the villagers only tried harder to sell me stuff – probably, as Melanie suggested, because they thought I was an easy target, having succumbed once already. The best part of the joke was still to come though…later, having stripped off my sweaty shirt, it became apparent that some of the shirt had stayed with me…namely the indigo dye! The salt in my copious perspiration had also caused the dye to set on my skin…so I actually spent much of my first two weeks in Vietnam looking like a smurf…much to everyone else’s amusement.
Disappointingly, our first day’s trek came to an end at 3pm – the supposed 18km of hard trekking we had been expecting probably wasn’t more than 12km of gentle hill-walking…certainly not what we’d signed up for. Our next bug-bear was our home-stay. Expectations involved staying in a traditional house with a family, sharing a meal with them and perhaps sitting round the fire talking with our guide translating for us. Reality was a purpose built guest-house (admittedly in traditional style, but around 4 times the size) with 12 mattresses, separate meals for us (tour group on porch) and them (guide and family in kitchen) and being left to entertain ourselves while they watched television. Once again, I appreciate that the locals’ life has been adapted to meet tourism demand…but it was, nevertheless, disappointing. Instead of gaining a true insight into the lives of the local people, we merely discovered that they were very good at making money out of tourists. Melanie and Jamie taught me to play cribbage and, certainly, the hours didn’t drag in their company but (as Jamie remarked) we could have been playing in Anchorage or Harrogate…why travel to the Vietnamese mountains? Dinner was certainly delicious and there was plenty of it, but it would have been nice to break bread with our hosts…
Day two was very similar to the first day, although the tracks were a little treacherous after overnight rain. A filling breakfast of pancakes suited me to a T…although Hamada didn’t look too impressed. Asians tend to eat noodles for breakfast and he only managed to force about half a pancake down before giving up. He seemed unusually tired and, when questioned, admitted that he’d been kept awake by some horrendous snoring…I felt extremely guilty eating his share of breakfast and knowing I’d prevented him from getting some much needed sleep. Still, I wasn’t about to let good food go to waste! The scenery was, once again, breath-taking but we were forced to take to the road for a long stretch to avoid some dangerously steep downhill sections, which the rain had turned into death slides. The road into the valley was in the process of being widened and properly paved, so the abundance of digging machinery and fume-belching lorries didn’t do much for the aesthetic appeal of the place. Once again our home-stay was disappointingly commercial and the over-whelming feeling was not one of mutual understanding…more like prey being circled by predators.
Our final day on the trail was by far the best in terms of both local interaction and hard physical effort. We crossed the valley and climbed up the other side to see a village of the Dao minority. They seemed far less interested in selling us stuff and we were even able to elicit shy smiles from some of the local kids instead of having to fend them off. Village life seemed to continue around us - with the daily food preparation and cleaning chores being carried out alongside weekend activities such as maintenance on their wooden houses and repairs to agricultural machinery (equivalent to banging up a couple of shelves and washing the car?).
Back in the valley just nicely for mid-day, we began the long and arduous climb back up to the road as the sun beat down fiercely on our bowed heads. Jamie and Melanie left me for dead as their mountain-ready legs bore them steadily up the winding path. Unable to sustain their perpetual motion, I was forced to take ever-more-frequent, gasping and sweaty breaks. Still, Hamada-San was the true hero…after his exertions on Fansipan, no sleep and a breakfast consisting of the juice of two lemons he forced his tired limbs up the slope only fifteen minutes behind me.
After lunch, it seemed like we waited forever for our Jeep to come and pick us up. While I was content to rest and allow lunch to settle, Jamie and Melanie found themselves drawn into a game of shuttlecock with some local girls. The kids were genuinely enjoying themselves and, while they made an easy sale of the shuttlecocks when the game ended, I don’t believe that was their ultimate motive.
The jeep ride back to Sapa over the un-constructed road was one of my least favourite automotive experiences ever…ranking pretty closely to a certain trip down the A30 a few years ago. Poor suspension, underpowered engine, exhaust fumes and heat contributed to a fairly nauseating experience…add the possibility of certain death from the steep drops on the left side (just as well my weight was on the right!) and you can understand that we were pretty relieved to return to the hotel in Sapa.
Of course, our relief only lasted long enough for us to work out that the hotel didn’t have any rooms for us. I wasn’t so fussed about that particular hotel…I was supposed to be staying in a village anyway. Jamie and Mel, on the other hand, were pretty disgruntled. Having stayed in the hotel the night prior to our trek, they had reserved and paid for the same room again to keep the beautiful view. They had even left their passports at the hotel and paid extra as this was a Saturday night. The attitude of the hotel staff, once again, left a lot to be desired. We finally got rooms at a nearby hotel and found a decent restaurant for a bite to eat. After dinner, in order to learn a little more about the local culture, we headed down to a bar with a floor show of traditional hill-tribe dancing. I’m no expert in the dancing customs of North West Vietnam, but I’m pretty sure the show was just an elaborate hoax to make more money from tourists. Some of the miming and the sheer lack of effort from the participants brought embarrassed grimaces and even sniggers of derision from the audience. The knowing smirks exchanged by the dancing girls seemed to add credence to the hoax theory and we left after twenty minutes, opting to spend our tourist dollar elsewhere.
The following day, with nothing to do until my night-train left at 8.50, I took a wander around the market and purchased a new ethnic shirt – this time mostly white, with some nice embroidered detail. I felt particularly chuffed with my bartering skills – walking all the way round the market, trying on twenty or so shirts until I found one that fitted at the right price. The food market was teeming with every kind of plant and animal as you’ll see from the photos…but I had arranged to meet Melanie and Jamie at a café for lunch, so passed up the exotic fare on offer. Their experience with the Royal Hotel had deteriorated further since the previous evening, with some screaming harpy haranguing them over breakfast for having the audacity to ask for their money back after being put in an inferior hotel. Contrary to everywhere else I’d been in Asia (and thus far in Vietnam), customer service and good manners seemed to be sadly lacking here – something we attributed to the sheer volume of tourists who come…if you upset the odd few, it doesn’t matter as you’re still making money hand over fist.
Melanie and Jamie were catching an earlier train to Hanoi, so we parted later that afternoon after a farewell beer. E-mails were exchanged - and mutual invitations to visit too. Characteristic of their generosity of spirit, they kindly gave me their (brand-spanking new!) copy of the Cambodia Lonely Planet as they knew I was heading there after Vietnam. Whatever else happened in Sapa, I’m glad to have met these two and I look forward to introducing them to you guys when they’re over in England. I’m already planning an Alaskan leg on my next trip to check out the hiking and climbing near their home. Thanks guys…you were the one saving grace of Sapa :-).
After they left, I buried my nose in Huck Finn…Huom had noticed me reading it the other day and had professed to it being one of his favourite books in Vietnamese, so I had promised to give it to him before I left. I can only imagine how he’s coping with the colloquialisms of the Mississippi basin!
On the journey back to Hanoi, I lay reflecting on my Sapa experience. I was pretty disillusioned…I hadn’t expected the commercialism to be so rampant, nor the locals to be so affected by the tourist influx. I was glad to have met Melanie and Jamie and to have seen the beautiful scenery and the equally beautiful people, but I couldn’t recommend my experience to a friend. A better option might have been to head up to the hills under my own steam and book a two day trek. This would have minimized the commercial overkill and the chances of being ripped off by cynical tour operators. In the back of my mind I was desperately hoping that the rest of Vietnam would not be so sullied.
Sorry if this hasn’t made particularly pleasant reading, guys. It was my first (partially) negative experience since leaving home, but I want to give a full and honest account of my travels …warts ‘n’ all.
November 10, 2004
Hanoi
As I'm coming to appreciate on this trip, cities have certain immutable - and often tiresome - features in common: they smell, they're noisy and they're full of people who can't wait to get where they're going! It's an inevitable fact when you fly from destination to destination, that you find yourself at the mercy of one of these sinkholes of humanity. So it's with some satisfaction that I can now look forward to three months of overland travel throughout Indochina. Of course, I'll still be making forays into cities - but now entirely by choice.
I hope I haven't implied through my little rant that Hanoi is a particularly awful place - compared to Seoul and Manila it's actually quite pleasant, but two days is wearing enough after my idyllic time on Lugbung. For a start the traffic is like nothing I've ever seen...not insanely dangerous so much as grating on the nerves. After a day you realise it's both pointless and dangerous to try and wait for a clear gap in the traffic and run across the road. For a start there is never a gap in the traffic...and if it ever seems like there is, you can guarantee a high-speed moped appearing from nowhere and beeping its horn close enough to perforate your eardrum. You simply saunter out into the road and proceed at a slow and steady pace to your destination - often walking along the middle of the street is the only option, with so many mopeds parked on the pavements. As you saunter (sucking in your breath a little to avoid the old dears with their baskets and clenching your buttocks to avoid the wing mirrors) the traffic miraculously parts around you, using every part of the highway, pavement and gutter to full effect. There appear to be no laws governing which side of the road you ride/drive on, none to place any limits on speed nor to stop when the lights are red. As far as I can tell the only rules are to beep your horn continuously for any and no reason and to get out of the way of anything bigger than you...this works pretty well for me as there aren't many mopeds plus driver that get to be my size - and the denizens of Hanoi are smart enough to work out that mowing me down is going to cost them. I didn't see one accident during my time in Hanoi and the haphazard chaos at every juncti0n and crossroads seemed to have an almost organic fluidity that allowed everyone to pass without too much obstruction. The only downside is the constant ringing your years develop after being assaulted by a daily battery of horns, ranging from the irksome to the comical (theme tune to Only Fools and Horses, anyone?) and from foghorn to piercing. Visitors to Hanoi seem to develop a form of shellshock induced by moped horns...one can only hope its not a precursor to a full-blown PTSD by the time I get to the DMZ!
So, apart from the traffic, what does Hanoi have to offer? Well, unusually for me, food was top of the list of attractions. There are two things you can't avoid whilst wondering the streets of Hanoi - the ubiquitous Xe Mo driver offering you a ride on the back of his motorbike and the countless street-food stalls spilling out of every doorway. Everywhere you look, someone has entered the catering trade with nothing more than a bunsen burner or a tray of hot charcoal and an exotic array of vegetables and herbs surrounding a tray of animal parts. Chicken feet, cow's heart, dried squid, pig guts, fish heads t0 name a few...as well as dubious looking piles of recognisably edible cuts. For a little more than 50pence, even a man of my considerable appetites can satisfy himself on tasty, filling snacks that appear in the twinkling of a goat's eye. I like vietnamese food well enough back in Blighty - imagine my horror at being surrounded by myriad opportunities to consume from the minute I get up until my head hits the pillow. If the profusion of bunsen-burner hot-food stalls don't appeal, it takes little effort to be pestered by one of the old dears carrying double-ended baskets of fresh fruit or donuts. One almost feels compelled to eat something from them just to lessen the horrendous weights they seem to casually sling over their shoulders as they pace the gutters, dodging mopeds.
It is possible to escape the temptation of food and irritation of traffic by taking a wander down to the shady shores of Hoan Kiem Lake. This (relatively) tranquil spot, to the north of the teeming Old Quarter, is bordered by trees and flower gardens. In the centre sits the solitary Thap Rua (Tortoise Tower), while at its southern end is the Ngoc Son Temple, reached by the charming hump-backed Huc Bridge. On my second day, seeking solace from the humidity and heat of midday, I perched myself on a shoreside bench and had a satisfying lunch of donuts and fresh fruit supplied by one of the ubiquitous basket carriers. Satiated and enjoying a little peace and quiet, I was pleasantly surprised to be approached by an amiable young man, who seemed keen to make polite conversation. I was just thinking how friendly even big cities in Vietnam were, when said young man asked me if I would like to make love to him...a little taken aback I replied with a firm negative, whilst trying not to be too rude. Ten minutes of convincing him that I only liked members of the opposite sex in that way (including fictional description of girlfriend back in England!) finally persuaded him to leave me alone. Perusing my Lonely Planet ($3 at book exchange - although turned out to be a knock-off with slightly difficult-to-read photocopied maps) a little later, I discovered that the lake is actually a favourite pick-up point for locals and tourists looking for 'man' love...hmmmm! Oops! At this point I was on the verge of feeling somewhat flattered...until I read on that the local boys frequenting the area were doing so for money rather than love. I appear not to be a big hunk of gay love...just a walking dollar sign. This it seems is a recurring theme in Hanoi...the locals trying every possible (mainly legal) means to wring tourist dollars from tourist wallets and money belts. Certainly Hanoi feels very safe as capital city's go, but it's not the violent crime you need to watch out for so much as the daylight robbery that takes place in the multitude of travel agencies and hotels throughout the Old Quarter. I had been tipped-off by friends that Sapa and Halong Bay were must-see stops on my tour of Vietnam, so had gone window-shopping for all-inclusive tours to both. The prices for my 4 day trekking trip in the north-western mountains ranged from $69 to $120, depending on which company you went through. I can imagine that those too lazy to venture past the travel desk at their hotel could easily get ripped-off. As it was, I felt quite smug after sweating and toiling around a dozen different agencies to find the best deals...and pride cometh before a fall (details later).
Staying in my $2 dorm with me were a couple of older guys who had been touring Vietnam by motorcycle. Jonny English (nickname) hailed from Lincolnshire and Simon was a policeman from San Francisco. Together with another American - Mitch from Arkansas - they had followed a Vietnamese guy called Tin all the way from Danang to Hanoi on motorbikes (about 600km). The more they told me about it the better it sounded...and they were all salt of the earth types so I was inclined to take what they were saying at face value. We hung out for the next day or so - enjoying Cha Ca (fish cake hot pot - a local speciality) and endeavouring to find the cheapest beer in Hanoi. The eventual winner was a little street stall with plastic kiddie stools selling a glass of no-name draught beer at 1500Dong (about 5p!) E-mail addresses were dutifully exchanged and I wouldn't be surprised if I was using Tin's services later on in the trip myself. On my final evening in Hanoi, Simon, John and I went to see the famous water puppet show. Performed in a murky pool with scenery and accompanied by a nine piece traditional band and choir, the show was amusing and instructive on the Vietnamese way of life...with each little vignette exploring traditional agricultural and historical themes. The puppets themselves were intricately designed and brilliantly coloured, while the team of puppeteers showed great strength and skill maneuvering them about the 'stage'. The show only lasted an hour but was well worth the 'tourist price' of 40,000Dong (locals pay considerably less...another theme that recurs throughout the country!) I bade farewell to my companions after a final beer and headed up to the train station to catch my sleeper train to Lao Cai, en route to Sapa.
I hope I haven't implied through my little rant that Hanoi is a particularly awful place - compared to Seoul and Manila it's actually quite pleasant, but two days is wearing enough after my idyllic time on Lugbung. For a start the traffic is like nothing I've ever seen...not insanely dangerous so much as grating on the nerves. After a day you realise it's both pointless and dangerous to try and wait for a clear gap in the traffic and run across the road. For a start there is never a gap in the traffic...and if it ever seems like there is, you can guarantee a high-speed moped appearing from nowhere and beeping its horn close enough to perforate your eardrum. You simply saunter out into the road and proceed at a slow and steady pace to your destination - often walking along the middle of the street is the only option, with so many mopeds parked on the pavements. As you saunter (sucking in your breath a little to avoid the old dears with their baskets and clenching your buttocks to avoid the wing mirrors) the traffic miraculously parts around you, using every part of the highway, pavement and gutter to full effect. There appear to be no laws governing which side of the road you ride/drive on, none to place any limits on speed nor to stop when the lights are red. As far as I can tell the only rules are to beep your horn continuously for any and no reason and to get out of the way of anything bigger than you...this works pretty well for me as there aren't many mopeds plus driver that get to be my size - and the denizens of Hanoi are smart enough to work out that mowing me down is going to cost them. I didn't see one accident during my time in Hanoi and the haphazard chaos at every juncti0n and crossroads seemed to have an almost organic fluidity that allowed everyone to pass without too much obstruction. The only downside is the constant ringing your years develop after being assaulted by a daily battery of horns, ranging from the irksome to the comical (theme tune to Only Fools and Horses, anyone?) and from foghorn to piercing. Visitors to Hanoi seem to develop a form of shellshock induced by moped horns...one can only hope its not a precursor to a full-blown PTSD by the time I get to the DMZ!
So, apart from the traffic, what does Hanoi have to offer? Well, unusually for me, food was top of the list of attractions. There are two things you can't avoid whilst wondering the streets of Hanoi - the ubiquitous Xe Mo driver offering you a ride on the back of his motorbike and the countless street-food stalls spilling out of every doorway. Everywhere you look, someone has entered the catering trade with nothing more than a bunsen burner or a tray of hot charcoal and an exotic array of vegetables and herbs surrounding a tray of animal parts. Chicken feet, cow's heart, dried squid, pig guts, fish heads t0 name a few...as well as dubious looking piles of recognisably edible cuts. For a little more than 50pence, even a man of my considerable appetites can satisfy himself on tasty, filling snacks that appear in the twinkling of a goat's eye. I like vietnamese food well enough back in Blighty - imagine my horror at being surrounded by myriad opportunities to consume from the minute I get up until my head hits the pillow. If the profusion of bunsen-burner hot-food stalls don't appeal, it takes little effort to be pestered by one of the old dears carrying double-ended baskets of fresh fruit or donuts. One almost feels compelled to eat something from them just to lessen the horrendous weights they seem to casually sling over their shoulders as they pace the gutters, dodging mopeds.
It is possible to escape the temptation of food and irritation of traffic by taking a wander down to the shady shores of Hoan Kiem Lake. This (relatively) tranquil spot, to the north of the teeming Old Quarter, is bordered by trees and flower gardens. In the centre sits the solitary Thap Rua (Tortoise Tower), while at its southern end is the Ngoc Son Temple, reached by the charming hump-backed Huc Bridge. On my second day, seeking solace from the humidity and heat of midday, I perched myself on a shoreside bench and had a satisfying lunch of donuts and fresh fruit supplied by one of the ubiquitous basket carriers. Satiated and enjoying a little peace and quiet, I was pleasantly surprised to be approached by an amiable young man, who seemed keen to make polite conversation. I was just thinking how friendly even big cities in Vietnam were, when said young man asked me if I would like to make love to him...a little taken aback I replied with a firm negative, whilst trying not to be too rude. Ten minutes of convincing him that I only liked members of the opposite sex in that way (including fictional description of girlfriend back in England!) finally persuaded him to leave me alone. Perusing my Lonely Planet ($3 at book exchange - although turned out to be a knock-off with slightly difficult-to-read photocopied maps) a little later, I discovered that the lake is actually a favourite pick-up point for locals and tourists looking for 'man' love...hmmmm! Oops! At this point I was on the verge of feeling somewhat flattered...until I read on that the local boys frequenting the area were doing so for money rather than love. I appear not to be a big hunk of gay love...just a walking dollar sign. This it seems is a recurring theme in Hanoi...the locals trying every possible (mainly legal) means to wring tourist dollars from tourist wallets and money belts. Certainly Hanoi feels very safe as capital city's go, but it's not the violent crime you need to watch out for so much as the daylight robbery that takes place in the multitude of travel agencies and hotels throughout the Old Quarter. I had been tipped-off by friends that Sapa and Halong Bay were must-see stops on my tour of Vietnam, so had gone window-shopping for all-inclusive tours to both. The prices for my 4 day trekking trip in the north-western mountains ranged from $69 to $120, depending on which company you went through. I can imagine that those too lazy to venture past the travel desk at their hotel could easily get ripped-off. As it was, I felt quite smug after sweating and toiling around a dozen different agencies to find the best deals...and pride cometh before a fall (details later).
Staying in my $2 dorm with me were a couple of older guys who had been touring Vietnam by motorcycle. Jonny English (nickname) hailed from Lincolnshire and Simon was a policeman from San Francisco. Together with another American - Mitch from Arkansas - they had followed a Vietnamese guy called Tin all the way from Danang to Hanoi on motorbikes (about 600km). The more they told me about it the better it sounded...and they were all salt of the earth types so I was inclined to take what they were saying at face value. We hung out for the next day or so - enjoying Cha Ca (fish cake hot pot - a local speciality) and endeavouring to find the cheapest beer in Hanoi. The eventual winner was a little street stall with plastic kiddie stools selling a glass of no-name draught beer at 1500Dong (about 5p!) E-mail addresses were dutifully exchanged and I wouldn't be surprised if I was using Tin's services later on in the trip myself. On my final evening in Hanoi, Simon, John and I went to see the famous water puppet show. Performed in a murky pool with scenery and accompanied by a nine piece traditional band and choir, the show was amusing and instructive on the Vietnamese way of life...with each little vignette exploring traditional agricultural and historical themes. The puppets themselves were intricately designed and brilliantly coloured, while the team of puppeteers showed great strength and skill maneuvering them about the 'stage'. The show only lasted an hour but was well worth the 'tourist price' of 40,000Dong (locals pay considerably less...another theme that recurs throughout the country!) I bade farewell to my companions after a final beer and headed up to the train station to catch my sleeper train to Lao Cai, en route to Sapa.
November 08, 2004
Au revoir Romblon - Je retournerai bientot
What can I say...I was sad to leave Romblon province - particularly Tony and Violet's idyllic island hideaway on Lugbung. I had met and spent time with some canaos (white men) with whom I felt a kindred spirit...more importantly, I had met and spent some time with 'real' Filipinos. I don't mean this in any other sense than that they were people (so it seemed to me) who lived and worked like the vast majority of their compatriots. Boracay was an unreal environment in much the same way as Magaluf, Ayia Napa and Ibiza are in their own respective ways. People go there with the sole purpose of enjoying themselves and they expect to find entertainment...in Romblon province, I found my entertainment as a smaller, integral part of my day - not its main focus. With so much natural beauty and the peace and solitude that I've really grown to love, this small group of islands will always be calling me back. As a kid, I could never understand why my parents frequently replied to my inquiries about what they would like for Christmas or birthdays with, 'Peace and quiet!'...I get it now. It's the hardest thing to find back home and when you do, it's difficult not to appreciate.
My journey back to Manila was a lot less arduous than I had been led to believe...punctuated by one of those strange, but pleasing, coincidences that often seem to surprise me. I took one, reasonably-sized rustbucket back to the port of Odiongan on Tablas Island. As ever, the sky was clear and the sun was shining - so I limited myself to a shady spot on the starboard rail and listened to DJBillyGonzalez's 'Ethereal Trance' to pass the time. I deliberately didn't feed myself, as the Lonely Planet had suggested an air-conditioned (extremely important for me as the clubbing fraternity will attest!) diner in Odiongan. As there were three hours to kill between my ship arriving and the ferry to Manila departing, I had already made up my mind not to sit around at the ferry terminal. A quick and pleasant lunch, drowned with a couple of 'last-chance' bottles of San Mig, left me with a little time to kill...just as I was about to head to the market to try and find some books to read, a familiar face walked through the door. On my departure from Lo-oc, the previous week, I had talked briefly with a guy in the town plaza, whilst loading my bag onto the Jeepney. We'd not had chance to get into a decent conversation before the Jeepney had fired up to go to San Agustin...I'd left with some small regret that we hadn't been able to chat. Anyway, it was the self same guy walking through the door in front of my eyes - and we both gave a start of surprised recognition. It turned out he was giving a friend a lift to the ferry port (a 50km round trip in his palatial Mitsubishi people carrier) and they had just stopped in at the diner for a farewell meal with some friends. Champ (yes, his name!) kindly offered to take me back up to the port after they'd eaten...and we ended up being able to have that chat after all. Nothing of any great consequence...just nice to shoot the breeze with a contemporary...and we did swap e-mails as I boarded the boat.
I found my berth in what was formerly a car deck of the ferry. Instead of a hundred cars, there were 400 bunk beds - each with its own thin, vinyl mattress. I found myself lucky to be on a top bunk - a space about 5ft by 12ft, which was designed to sleep four. As the boat got underway, it became apparent that I wouldn't have to share with anyone, so I had the luxury of spreading out and relaxing. I was just tucking into a collection of short stories by W. Somerset Maugham (20 pesos - bargain!), when a Filipino in his 50s asked if I would mind him talking to me. Never one to deny someone a good jaw, I nodded. His first question gave me some warning, 'What do you think of this election between Bush and Kerry?' and we spent the next hour debating the 'War on Terror', Bush's motives and the relative evils of Christianity and Islam. The Philippines (for the most part) is strongly pro-American and pro-Bush...there seemed to be little real thought in most of his arguments - mostly a depressing parroting of Bush propaganda. I think he was slightly taken aback that I didn't support Bush's policies and couldn't really understand my point when I told him that I have little faith in most politicians to do the right things for the right reasons. I was trying to show him that there are two sides to every story, but he really didn't seem to go for that one. Politics is a subject I tend to avoid, only because it gets frustrating discussing it with people who have firmly entrenched views that they refuse to reconsider. In the end, I made an excuse to go to the toilet and disappeared into the cinema to watch a crappy horror flick, 'Darkness Falls'. The guy had asked me if I was playing safe with my views because I was away from home - a logical and wise choice if I'd had to think about what I was going to say. At the end of the day, there is no right or wrong way to look at a situation...as long as you look at the whole situation. If you're not in possession of too many facts, it's difficult to make an informed decision. I'm not a fence sitter, but I won't judge people or a situation when I only know one side of the story. I think I left him a little disappointed...
The rest of my trip was peaceful...I even slept for about 5 hours, before the ship pulled into Manila around 3.30am. A jeepney and a taxi ride to my hotel, left me7hrs to sleep, spruce up and feed before my flight to Hanoi. I left the Philippines with regret - but in the certain knowledge that I'll be back in the not-too-distant future. The islands are beautiful, their inhabitants too in every sense of the word. Filipinos are so open and friendly that its hard not to love being around them and I met some kind and interesting people, with whom I shall endeavour to stay in touch. I just hope that political corruption doesn't allow the natural resources and the immense work ethic of the people to be permanently squandered. It would be heart-breaking to return and find that things were not as they are now.
My journey back to Manila was a lot less arduous than I had been led to believe...punctuated by one of those strange, but pleasing, coincidences that often seem to surprise me. I took one, reasonably-sized rustbucket back to the port of Odiongan on Tablas Island. As ever, the sky was clear and the sun was shining - so I limited myself to a shady spot on the starboard rail and listened to DJBillyGonzalez's 'Ethereal Trance' to pass the time. I deliberately didn't feed myself, as the Lonely Planet had suggested an air-conditioned (extremely important for me as the clubbing fraternity will attest!) diner in Odiongan. As there were three hours to kill between my ship arriving and the ferry to Manila departing, I had already made up my mind not to sit around at the ferry terminal. A quick and pleasant lunch, drowned with a couple of 'last-chance' bottles of San Mig, left me with a little time to kill...just as I was about to head to the market to try and find some books to read, a familiar face walked through the door. On my departure from Lo-oc, the previous week, I had talked briefly with a guy in the town plaza, whilst loading my bag onto the Jeepney. We'd not had chance to get into a decent conversation before the Jeepney had fired up to go to San Agustin...I'd left with some small regret that we hadn't been able to chat. Anyway, it was the self same guy walking through the door in front of my eyes - and we both gave a start of surprised recognition. It turned out he was giving a friend a lift to the ferry port (a 50km round trip in his palatial Mitsubishi people carrier) and they had just stopped in at the diner for a farewell meal with some friends. Champ (yes, his name!) kindly offered to take me back up to the port after they'd eaten...and we ended up being able to have that chat after all. Nothing of any great consequence...just nice to shoot the breeze with a contemporary...and we did swap e-mails as I boarded the boat.
I found my berth in what was formerly a car deck of the ferry. Instead of a hundred cars, there were 400 bunk beds - each with its own thin, vinyl mattress. I found myself lucky to be on a top bunk - a space about 5ft by 12ft, which was designed to sleep four. As the boat got underway, it became apparent that I wouldn't have to share with anyone, so I had the luxury of spreading out and relaxing. I was just tucking into a collection of short stories by W. Somerset Maugham (20 pesos - bargain!), when a Filipino in his 50s asked if I would mind him talking to me. Never one to deny someone a good jaw, I nodded. His first question gave me some warning, 'What do you think of this election between Bush and Kerry?' and we spent the next hour debating the 'War on Terror', Bush's motives and the relative evils of Christianity and Islam. The Philippines (for the most part) is strongly pro-American and pro-Bush...there seemed to be little real thought in most of his arguments - mostly a depressing parroting of Bush propaganda. I think he was slightly taken aback that I didn't support Bush's policies and couldn't really understand my point when I told him that I have little faith in most politicians to do the right things for the right reasons. I was trying to show him that there are two sides to every story, but he really didn't seem to go for that one. Politics is a subject I tend to avoid, only because it gets frustrating discussing it with people who have firmly entrenched views that they refuse to reconsider. In the end, I made an excuse to go to the toilet and disappeared into the cinema to watch a crappy horror flick, 'Darkness Falls'. The guy had asked me if I was playing safe with my views because I was away from home - a logical and wise choice if I'd had to think about what I was going to say. At the end of the day, there is no right or wrong way to look at a situation...as long as you look at the whole situation. If you're not in possession of too many facts, it's difficult to make an informed decision. I'm not a fence sitter, but I won't judge people or a situation when I only know one side of the story. I think I left him a little disappointed...
The rest of my trip was peaceful...I even slept for about 5 hours, before the ship pulled into Manila around 3.30am. A jeepney and a taxi ride to my hotel, left me7hrs to sleep, spruce up and feed before my flight to Hanoi. I left the Philippines with regret - but in the certain knowledge that I'll be back in the not-too-distant future. The islands are beautiful, their inhabitants too in every sense of the word. Filipinos are so open and friendly that its hard not to love being around them and I met some kind and interesting people, with whom I shall endeavour to stay in touch. I just hope that political corruption doesn't allow the natural resources and the immense work ethic of the people to be permanently squandered. It would be heart-breaking to return and find that things were not as they are now.
November 07, 2004
Return to Lugbung
On my return to Romblon the following afternoon, I arranged passage over to Lugbung with Sinando once again. I did, however, negotiate a better price with the old scallywag this time, having discovered from Rodel that the twice-daily passenger boat only cost 7pesos. We arrived after dark and soaking wet from heading directly into the waves…well I say we…it was mostly me that was wet…Sinando getting revenge for the low fare? Who knows? Tony, Violet and Joe welcomed me with open arms and I really felt like I’d done the right thing coming back. After a delicious meal, which was actually in celebration of Tony and Violet’s 24th wedding anniversary, we fell to talking again about the history of Romblon and the Philippines. They gave me a clearer insight into there reasons for living in such a remote part of the world – a combination of the appeal of the natural beauty and a fierce dislike of the nanny state and endless regulation of the western world – sentiments with which I can identify. I was to spend the following three nights in their convivial company and sleeping in my own personal beach house. This simple lifestyle: candle-light and chess, fresh fruit and soft drinks appeals so much more than the comparatively bright lights of Boracay. I made up my mind that future visits to the Philippines would be consistent with this.
Between the twilight hours spent in my idyllic, evening hideaway, Tony encouraged me to get about and see the locality. He steadfastly refused to let me help with his forest and shoreline projects – maybe to maintain a consistent working environment for his workers…perhaps just ensuring that his guest was thoroughly enjoying himself.
I spent another day taking a motorbike around Romblon, finding the peaceful resort of San Pedro for a spot of lunch. Fresh lapu-lapu with rice, whilst watching golden orioles darting around the bougainvillea…very tranquil.
Friday was diving day. I spent the day with Pedro on his reef, where visibility was far better than anything in Boracay. We saw ribbon eels, sea cucumbers and lion fish to name the more exotic species…I was surprised to see Pedro killing and chopping up a sea-urchin with his dive-knife – but, as he explained to me afterwards, removing the urchins from the reef allows the coral to grow…and the maelstrom of fish that descended to feed was certainly worth seeing! Pedro’s gorgeous wife, Mai, cooked us a very pleasant lunch of sweet n sour fish and we sat, peacefully enjoying the southern aspect onto a turquoise sea, burnished by the midday sun. I certainly envied them their life in a secluded wooden beach hut – with beach and reef for a front garden.
On the way back from Pedro’s, I came upon Rodel and the fishermen having a bit of a party. One of the guys, Phil, was celebrating his 35th birthday (note the full head of hair – git!), so the lads were letting off some steam with a few crates of beer, several bottles of brandy and a 5-stringed, tuneless guitar. After playing catch-up and swiftly necking a couple of beers, I soon got into the swing of things. Guys all over the world have the same need for a little, occasional carousing. I felt privileged to be accepted as a canao (white man) amongst the menfolk of the village. The party eventually broke up when some of the guys had to go fishing (!) and Phil’s wife came and berated him for getting too hammered, before dragging him off by his ear to sober up. I stumbled back, in the gathering gloom, for my last meal and last night’s rest with Tony and Violet.
Between the twilight hours spent in my idyllic, evening hideaway, Tony encouraged me to get about and see the locality. He steadfastly refused to let me help with his forest and shoreline projects – maybe to maintain a consistent working environment for his workers…perhaps just ensuring that his guest was thoroughly enjoying himself.
I spent another day taking a motorbike around Romblon, finding the peaceful resort of San Pedro for a spot of lunch. Fresh lapu-lapu with rice, whilst watching golden orioles darting around the bougainvillea…very tranquil.
Friday was diving day. I spent the day with Pedro on his reef, where visibility was far better than anything in Boracay. We saw ribbon eels, sea cucumbers and lion fish to name the more exotic species…I was surprised to see Pedro killing and chopping up a sea-urchin with his dive-knife – but, as he explained to me afterwards, removing the urchins from the reef allows the coral to grow…and the maelstrom of fish that descended to feed was certainly worth seeing! Pedro’s gorgeous wife, Mai, cooked us a very pleasant lunch of sweet n sour fish and we sat, peacefully enjoying the southern aspect onto a turquoise sea, burnished by the midday sun. I certainly envied them their life in a secluded wooden beach hut – with beach and reef for a front garden.
On the way back from Pedro’s, I came upon Rodel and the fishermen having a bit of a party. One of the guys, Phil, was celebrating his 35th birthday (note the full head of hair – git!), so the lads were letting off some steam with a few crates of beer, several bottles of brandy and a 5-stringed, tuneless guitar. After playing catch-up and swiftly necking a couple of beers, I soon got into the swing of things. Guys all over the world have the same need for a little, occasional carousing. I felt privileged to be accepted as a canao (white man) amongst the menfolk of the village. The party eventually broke up when some of the guys had to go fishing (!) and Phil’s wife came and berated him for getting too hammered, before dragging him off by his ear to sober up. I stumbled back, in the gathering gloom, for my last meal and last night’s rest with Tony and Violet.
November 05, 2004
Sibuyan and Mt. Guiting-Guiting
The previous night, I’d fallen asleep to the sounds of breaking waves and the monsoon wind passing through the palms. I came to with a start, wondering what had woken me…I was later to discover that my early-morning visitor was a local lizard, often given to rousing lazy humans with his pre-dawn bark. On another occasion, I might have rolled over to go back to sleep. However, the view from my balcony was stunning – even in the grey light before sun-up. Perched no more than 30ft from the island’s eastern shore line, I had a perfect view across the sound to see the sun rising behind Romblon’s northern mountains. I sat there wishing I had my bag with my camera…but I suppose it’s one sunrise I’ll have to keep for myself.
After a wash and brush-up, I wondered back down the path to the living area of Tony and Violet’s little kingdom. Every species of fruit and timber imaginable stretched away in all directions from the shore…scratching chickens and gobbling turkeys wandered freely amongst the plants, affording themselves of the rich cornucopia of insect life that seemed to thrive in this garden paradise. Tony greeted me with a cup of coffee and insisted on taking me on a tour of his domain. This involved a steady, and increasingly sweaty, climb up through plantations of mahogany, mango, gemlia, hibiscus, coconut and banana palms…and a succession of other species, too diverse to remember. As we walked, Tony explained that when he and Violet had first arrived, the hillside was barren grassland, prone to burning flat during every dry season. Despite the locals’ best attempts to tell them nothing would grow there, they persisted – constructing dams to fill the water table and using fast-growing trees to provide the shade cover necessary to despatch the unwanted ground cover. They must have done something right as the place is now a veritable Garden of Eden. The views from the top of the hill are amazing…enough to make a man give up a way of life to make a fresh start. As we headed back down to a breakfast of fresh, green coconut, Tony explained his current project of cleaning the reefs and using the dead corals to help form beaches that would prevent the erosion of the foreshore. He didn’t deny there was a dual purpose in beautifying his surroundings…but one can forgive such when the result is so beneficial. I liked Tony and admired his work immensely…I was sad to leave in order to catch the boat to Sibuyan – and his offer to stay for as long as I wanted was extremely appealing. However, I had an appointment with a mountain which I wasn’t prepared to give up.
Before heading back to Romblon, I went to meet a Swiss-French guy, Pedro, who had recently set up a dive shop on the island. It was his reef that Rodel was aiming to get protected and he proved to be knowledgeable and passionate about marine conservation. A very cool, laid-back kind of guy, I found yet another reason for wanting to stay on Lugbung – not least, to practice my recently acquired diving skills. However, I eventually headed back to Romblon with Sinando at about 9am. First port of call was the Romblon Plaza Hotel where, thanks to Virgie, I was able to grab a shower to wash away the detritus of my early morning exertions. I then wondered down to David’s computer shop and got my laptop reconfigured for wireless use on their network. This meant I was able to drink ‘the coldest beer in the Philippines’ at Jak’s whilst e-mailing a few people and updating the blog. Eventually, at half-twelve, I headed down to the pier to catch the pumpboat to Sibuyan. The sea was calm, the sky blue and the sun shining…schools of dolphins raced along at the prow of the boat, as we cut through the waves towards the mist-shrouded peak of Mt. Guiting-Guiting. This arduous peak had been my inspiration for heading into the Romblon province in the first place…I was really looking forward to donning the boots and ‘hoying myself up her’ – as a good friend of mine would say.
Arriving in Anbulong port, I took the first tricycle I could find to head for Vickie’s Place in Magdiwang. The Lonely Planet and virtually everyone who knew Sibuyan highly recommended her hospitality, and particularly her cooking. With a certain resignation, I had submitted to the awful prospect of being overfed…again! Vickie herself was very welcoming – and her three daughters proved to be equally friendly. The eldest, Grace, spoke remarkably good English and she really struck me as a bright cookie. As I showed her some of the photos from my previous travels, the conversation touched on the problems of religion, environmental destruction and the terrible brain-drain affecting the medical and nursing professions in her country. She was polite and intelligent and, for a sixteen year-old, she seemed ridiculously well-informed. In the future, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find her working as a doctor or perhaps doing a PhD in ecology and conservation.
Vickie arranged for a friend to take me to the Mt. Guiting-Guiting National Park Office to arrange guides and permits to climb the mountain. Hurtling down the roads on the back of his Yamaha, I again felt the exhilaration of being far-removed from the cloying strictures of rules and regulations that so often get in the way of having fun. Admittedly, riding on the back of a motorbike on the roads in the UK is not something I’d recommend with leathers and a helmet. However, with only the occasional tricycle or Jeepney to scoot around and the odd stupid dog or chicken to dodge, Filipino roads are a much safer (if bumpier) experience.
Before heading into the park, we made a slight detour to Lambingan Falls – a beautiful cascade of crystal clear mountain waters falling into a deep swimming hole, where I spent a pleasant half hour cooling off from the afternoon heat and harassing the local river fauna. I had brought along my mask and snorkel in case there was anything worth checking out…and took an exploratory dive with just the mask to have a look around. Of course, having gotten so used to swimming underwater with a mask and being able to breath, I managed to take in nice lungful of water mid-dive. I surfaced, coughing and spluttering – much to the mirth of the local kids sat higher up the fall. I gave an embarrassed grin before rushing off to get my snorkel to prevent any repeat performance.
Eventually, we headed down the shady trail into the National Park. The deeper we went into the virgin rainforest, the darker and cooler it became. Towering trees, laden with fruit of every description closed in around the narrowing track and the background noise of insects and amphibians overcame even the steady roar of the motorbike’s four-stroke. We came, unexpectedly into a clearing dotted with smart-looking huts and picnic benches…all looking ominously deserted. Unfortunately, it seemed, the curse of the public holidays had struck once again…the offices were closed. As I later found out, it seems the funding for the preservation and upkeep of the National Park had dried up. The European Commission had taken umbrage at the lack of research resulting from their substantial financial contributions. It must have been particularly galling to discover that the local mandarin, supposedly administering the funds to develop a sustainable concern, was pocketing the cash whilst directing the illegal logging operations that are destroying the island’s unique habitat. Now that the funding had ceased, Romblon Province could only afford to employ one ranger in the park – who, not unreasonably, had taken advantage of all the public holidays to spend time with his family. More concerning than one European’s sudden inability to climb a mountain, is the scale of illegal logging that now appears to be going on in the Cajidiocan Barangay on the far side of the mountain. If it isn’t stopped soon, another of the world’s great natural resources will be destroyed. Something that doesn’t seem to matter to the rich few controlling the purse strings and the politics.
As we headed back into town, it began to dawn on me that my major reason for travelling through Romblon had suddenly disappeared. It requires a minimum of 3 days to scale Mt. Guiting-Guiting - and the major ferry service between Magdiwang and Luzon Island (home of Manila) was offline after a sunken ship last year…I had cut it too fine and could not afford the extra day required for fear of missing my flight to Vietnam. In simple terms, I was going to have to find something else to do for a few days before catching a ferry back north from Romblon Town. After dinner (a delicious piece of marinaded blue marlin, with rice and stir-fried vegetables), I took a stroll down to the beach to consider my options. Realising I had to be back in Romblon for the ferry anyway, it made sense to return there and see some more of the island and its surroundings. I felt very strongly that I would return to Sibuyan some day and spend some real time exploring the forest and (hopefully) climbing the mountain – I didn’t want to hang around for a day or two within sight of the mountain, unable to scale its great peak. Still frustrated by the state of affairs at the National Park, it eventually occurred to me that there was a practical way in which I could contribute to the ecological restoration of the islands. Why not take up Tony on his kind offer in Lugbung…and in return, get stuck into the restoration and reclamation projects he had initiated? The more I thought about it, the more sense it made and I quickly came up with a plan, including some diving on Pedro’s soon-to-be marine sanctuary.
As I sat on the sand, listening to CRW’s ‘I Feel Love’ and the gentle background swish of the surf, I had the pleasure of witnessing a pyrotechnic display of lightening over the sea. It dawned on me that, although Guiting-Guiting had been my objective, I had met some special people and seen some beautiful sights on my tour of Romblon. Is it true that travelling isn’t just about the destinations? I think so…
I’ve always been a planner – it’s in my nature – but I was fast overcoming my disappointment, because the journey to the objective had been every bit as fulfilling as climbing it might have been. I felt like I’d seen and done so much just getting there that I was beginning to appreciate my travels as a continuous journey, rather than a series of destinations. In much the same way, I don’t begrudge the time I spend writing the blog or returning all of your many e-mails…sharing it with you all is as much a part of the experience as being here. While I have appreciated the solitude and peace that comes from travelling alone, I don’t think I’d enjoy myself half as much if I didn’t have someone to tell about it.
After a wash and brush-up, I wondered back down the path to the living area of Tony and Violet’s little kingdom. Every species of fruit and timber imaginable stretched away in all directions from the shore…scratching chickens and gobbling turkeys wandered freely amongst the plants, affording themselves of the rich cornucopia of insect life that seemed to thrive in this garden paradise. Tony greeted me with a cup of coffee and insisted on taking me on a tour of his domain. This involved a steady, and increasingly sweaty, climb up through plantations of mahogany, mango, gemlia, hibiscus, coconut and banana palms…and a succession of other species, too diverse to remember. As we walked, Tony explained that when he and Violet had first arrived, the hillside was barren grassland, prone to burning flat during every dry season. Despite the locals’ best attempts to tell them nothing would grow there, they persisted – constructing dams to fill the water table and using fast-growing trees to provide the shade cover necessary to despatch the unwanted ground cover. They must have done something right as the place is now a veritable Garden of Eden. The views from the top of the hill are amazing…enough to make a man give up a way of life to make a fresh start. As we headed back down to a breakfast of fresh, green coconut, Tony explained his current project of cleaning the reefs and using the dead corals to help form beaches that would prevent the erosion of the foreshore. He didn’t deny there was a dual purpose in beautifying his surroundings…but one can forgive such when the result is so beneficial. I liked Tony and admired his work immensely…I was sad to leave in order to catch the boat to Sibuyan – and his offer to stay for as long as I wanted was extremely appealing. However, I had an appointment with a mountain which I wasn’t prepared to give up.
Before heading back to Romblon, I went to meet a Swiss-French guy, Pedro, who had recently set up a dive shop on the island. It was his reef that Rodel was aiming to get protected and he proved to be knowledgeable and passionate about marine conservation. A very cool, laid-back kind of guy, I found yet another reason for wanting to stay on Lugbung – not least, to practice my recently acquired diving skills. However, I eventually headed back to Romblon with Sinando at about 9am. First port of call was the Romblon Plaza Hotel where, thanks to Virgie, I was able to grab a shower to wash away the detritus of my early morning exertions. I then wondered down to David’s computer shop and got my laptop reconfigured for wireless use on their network. This meant I was able to drink ‘the coldest beer in the Philippines’ at Jak’s whilst e-mailing a few people and updating the blog. Eventually, at half-twelve, I headed down to the pier to catch the pumpboat to Sibuyan. The sea was calm, the sky blue and the sun shining…schools of dolphins raced along at the prow of the boat, as we cut through the waves towards the mist-shrouded peak of Mt. Guiting-Guiting. This arduous peak had been my inspiration for heading into the Romblon province in the first place…I was really looking forward to donning the boots and ‘hoying myself up her’ – as a good friend of mine would say.
Arriving in Anbulong port, I took the first tricycle I could find to head for Vickie’s Place in Magdiwang. The Lonely Planet and virtually everyone who knew Sibuyan highly recommended her hospitality, and particularly her cooking. With a certain resignation, I had submitted to the awful prospect of being overfed…again! Vickie herself was very welcoming – and her three daughters proved to be equally friendly. The eldest, Grace, spoke remarkably good English and she really struck me as a bright cookie. As I showed her some of the photos from my previous travels, the conversation touched on the problems of religion, environmental destruction and the terrible brain-drain affecting the medical and nursing professions in her country. She was polite and intelligent and, for a sixteen year-old, she seemed ridiculously well-informed. In the future, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find her working as a doctor or perhaps doing a PhD in ecology and conservation.
Vickie arranged for a friend to take me to the Mt. Guiting-Guiting National Park Office to arrange guides and permits to climb the mountain. Hurtling down the roads on the back of his Yamaha, I again felt the exhilaration of being far-removed from the cloying strictures of rules and regulations that so often get in the way of having fun. Admittedly, riding on the back of a motorbike on the roads in the UK is not something I’d recommend with leathers and a helmet. However, with only the occasional tricycle or Jeepney to scoot around and the odd stupid dog or chicken to dodge, Filipino roads are a much safer (if bumpier) experience.
Before heading into the park, we made a slight detour to Lambingan Falls – a beautiful cascade of crystal clear mountain waters falling into a deep swimming hole, where I spent a pleasant half hour cooling off from the afternoon heat and harassing the local river fauna. I had brought along my mask and snorkel in case there was anything worth checking out…and took an exploratory dive with just the mask to have a look around. Of course, having gotten so used to swimming underwater with a mask and being able to breath, I managed to take in nice lungful of water mid-dive. I surfaced, coughing and spluttering – much to the mirth of the local kids sat higher up the fall. I gave an embarrassed grin before rushing off to get my snorkel to prevent any repeat performance.
Eventually, we headed down the shady trail into the National Park. The deeper we went into the virgin rainforest, the darker and cooler it became. Towering trees, laden with fruit of every description closed in around the narrowing track and the background noise of insects and amphibians overcame even the steady roar of the motorbike’s four-stroke. We came, unexpectedly into a clearing dotted with smart-looking huts and picnic benches…all looking ominously deserted. Unfortunately, it seemed, the curse of the public holidays had struck once again…the offices were closed. As I later found out, it seems the funding for the preservation and upkeep of the National Park had dried up. The European Commission had taken umbrage at the lack of research resulting from their substantial financial contributions. It must have been particularly galling to discover that the local mandarin, supposedly administering the funds to develop a sustainable concern, was pocketing the cash whilst directing the illegal logging operations that are destroying the island’s unique habitat. Now that the funding had ceased, Romblon Province could only afford to employ one ranger in the park – who, not unreasonably, had taken advantage of all the public holidays to spend time with his family. More concerning than one European’s sudden inability to climb a mountain, is the scale of illegal logging that now appears to be going on in the Cajidiocan Barangay on the far side of the mountain. If it isn’t stopped soon, another of the world’s great natural resources will be destroyed. Something that doesn’t seem to matter to the rich few controlling the purse strings and the politics.
As we headed back into town, it began to dawn on me that my major reason for travelling through Romblon had suddenly disappeared. It requires a minimum of 3 days to scale Mt. Guiting-Guiting - and the major ferry service between Magdiwang and Luzon Island (home of Manila) was offline after a sunken ship last year…I had cut it too fine and could not afford the extra day required for fear of missing my flight to Vietnam. In simple terms, I was going to have to find something else to do for a few days before catching a ferry back north from Romblon Town. After dinner (a delicious piece of marinaded blue marlin, with rice and stir-fried vegetables), I took a stroll down to the beach to consider my options. Realising I had to be back in Romblon for the ferry anyway, it made sense to return there and see some more of the island and its surroundings. I felt very strongly that I would return to Sibuyan some day and spend some real time exploring the forest and (hopefully) climbing the mountain – I didn’t want to hang around for a day or two within sight of the mountain, unable to scale its great peak. Still frustrated by the state of affairs at the National Park, it eventually occurred to me that there was a practical way in which I could contribute to the ecological restoration of the islands. Why not take up Tony on his kind offer in Lugbung…and in return, get stuck into the restoration and reclamation projects he had initiated? The more I thought about it, the more sense it made and I quickly came up with a plan, including some diving on Pedro’s soon-to-be marine sanctuary.
As I sat on the sand, listening to CRW’s ‘I Feel Love’ and the gentle background swish of the surf, I had the pleasure of witnessing a pyrotechnic display of lightening over the sea. It dawned on me that, although Guiting-Guiting had been my objective, I had met some special people and seen some beautiful sights on my tour of Romblon. Is it true that travelling isn’t just about the destinations? I think so…
I’ve always been a planner – it’s in my nature – but I was fast overcoming my disappointment, because the journey to the objective had been every bit as fulfilling as climbing it might have been. I felt like I’d seen and done so much just getting there that I was beginning to appreciate my travels as a continuous journey, rather than a series of destinations. In much the same way, I don’t begrudge the time I spend writing the blog or returning all of your many e-mails…sharing it with you all is as much a part of the experience as being here. While I have appreciated the solitude and peace that comes from travelling alone, I don’t think I’d enjoy myself half as much if I didn’t have someone to tell about it.
November 04, 2004
The following day, with the information centre still closed due to All Saints Day, I set about trying to organise my own camping trip to nearby Lugbung Island. Virgie, the very helpful and accommodating concierge at my hotel, kindly introduced me to her father, Sinando, who agreed to take me over and pick me up the following morning for the sum of 500pesos. We agreed to set sail at 4pm, so I went off to the beach I’d discovered the previous day for some fascinating snorkelling. The first thing I discovered was that I’d been lucky not to stray too far during my previous day’s swim – the seabed was a veritable minefield of lethal-looking sea urchins the size of footballs! Even in the shallows, all manner of marine life scooted around and under lumps of coral and granite…hermit crabs, parrot fish, clown fish, clams and five different species of brightly coloured starfish. After an hour, with the sun beginning to feel hot on my back, I trotted off down the road to find the peaceful beach resort of ‘Tiamban’, where I found the ubiquitous tuna sandwich and some refreshingly cold San Miguel. Sat, alone and unmolested, in the cool shade of the palms I looked forward to the peace and isolation of my camping trip on tiny Lugbung…funny how things never turn out as you expect…and how much you appreciate them all the same.
Back in town, at Jak’s bar, I finally discovered what San Miguel is like ice-cold…whatever they use for refrigeration in that place, the rest of the Philippines could do with copying! David and Bob wandered in and we shared a few beers and talked about their lives as ex-pats until it was time for my boat. A slightly damp trip through the strong currents and across the monsoon winds brought Sinando’s pump boat ashore at what looked like a reasonably well-populated little island. At my companion’s insistence, we went to meet Rodel, the local Barangay Captain. (A Barangay being the local equivalent of a parish.) Rodel turned out to be a well-educated and affable chap, with a gift for putting people at ease. We sat and had a coffee and talked about my trip, the small island’s economy and his efforts as Barangay captain to improve education and conservation in the area. It soon became apparent that Lugbung was no deserted paradise, but a thriving fishing community with a population nearing 1000. My plans for a peaceful night camped on the beach and a solitary dawn were fast evaporating. Rodel explained that an ex-pat Australian called Tony lived on the island – in fact he was married to Rodel’s sister, Violet. It seemed that Tony had heard I was coming over and had invited us over to his place for drinks. Ever willing to go with the flow, I agreed to head up there with them after I’d seen the sun go down. Shortly after, I sat, undisturbed, on the sand-spit point of the island, watching the sun sinking behind Tablas’s mountainous backbone. I began to notice the wind increasing in strength and, as I turned to see ominous black thunderheads, the first spots of rain began to fall. In the 3 minutes it took me to walk back to Rodel’s, I managed to get completely soaked. However, the rain was so pleasantly warm that it was like stepping into the shower with clothes on. Forced to take cover by the tropical downpour, I sat talking with Rodel and some of his fishermen buddies, while the rain hammered against the corrugated tin roof. Although quite spacious and containing a newish TV, the shack was pretty basic…earth floors, plastic garden furniture and a dark recess in one corner, containing the toilet and a bucket for manual flushing. The work surfaces and crockery, however, were scrupulously clean – and the two healthy-looking kids being spoon-fed rice and fish by Rodel’s wife looked perfectly happy. We supped brandy and sprite as we chatted about the local politics. It seemed the previous Barangay captain had been corrupt and, despite bribes and threats during the election, Rodel had been returned in a landslide victory by a population that was sick of being conned. Rodel had already instituted regulations preventing fishing of the island’s waters by outsiders. He was also in the process of helping one of the island’s ex-pats set up a marine sanctuary on a reef – something that would ensure future tourist income on the island, as well as protecting its natural resources. It was refreshing to see democracy being given a chance to work in a place, like the Philippines, renowned for being corrupt. Despite their strong belief in Rodel’s leadership, it was plain that some of the men didn’t agree with all his policies. The biggest bugbear of the fishermen was that keeping the kids in school all day (8-4 here as opposed to 6-12 elsewhere), prevented them from helping their parents. As Rodel pointed out, education is the one thing that will help the next generation move forward – and keeping the kids in school also helps avoid problems such as delinquency. We were all agreed that Filipino children still have that degree of innocence and a respect for authority that is sadly missing in western society. Eventually, the rain subsided and Rodel took me round the other side of the island to meet his sister and brother-in-law.
First impressions of the Field family were extremely favourable. We were warmly welcomed and, before I knew it, plates of fish, rice and vegetables were being eagerly thrust under my nose. Violet turned out to be an attractive Sino-Filipina in her early forties…Tony, a little older, and looking very much like a white man who had grown used to the merciless heat of the tropics and now coped with ease. Their 19 year-old son, Joe, was intelligent and amiable - with a playful sense of humour. I was made to feel at ease by my gracious hosts and, before long, Tony was giving me a brief history of his time on Lugbung. As Rodel, had already suggested the local politics had not been conducive to progress in the area…many of Tony’s plans and dreams over the years had fallen by the wayside, due to a lack of support or filibustering by local politicians. The way Tony spoke about the island and the local people, you could see there was a genuine affection. Despite the shortcomings of living in the back of beyond, it seemed Tony was still committed to making a difference. Absorbed in our conversation, I didn’t notice time passing, but suddenly Rodel was seeing if I was ready to leave. Without warning, Tony and Violet were insisting that I stay in one of their empty houses and head back to the sandspit in the morning. Despite the fact that I didn’t have my toothbrush or a change of clothes, I could feel fate pushing me down this path and agreed. To my surprise and delight, I found a new toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and a towel in my beachside villa. Tony and I sat on the roof as the Milky Way rolled into view above the palm trees - and talked long into the night to the sound of waves breaking on the beach below. Tony prefers the simple life – shunning electric lighting and eating fruit grown mainly on his land. In his own small way, I could see that he was doing as much as anyone to preserve the ecology and the beauty of his surroundings. The scale of his project would become apparent in the light of day.
Back in town, at Jak’s bar, I finally discovered what San Miguel is like ice-cold…whatever they use for refrigeration in that place, the rest of the Philippines could do with copying! David and Bob wandered in and we shared a few beers and talked about their lives as ex-pats until it was time for my boat. A slightly damp trip through the strong currents and across the monsoon winds brought Sinando’s pump boat ashore at what looked like a reasonably well-populated little island. At my companion’s insistence, we went to meet Rodel, the local Barangay Captain. (A Barangay being the local equivalent of a parish.) Rodel turned out to be a well-educated and affable chap, with a gift for putting people at ease. We sat and had a coffee and talked about my trip, the small island’s economy and his efforts as Barangay captain to improve education and conservation in the area. It soon became apparent that Lugbung was no deserted paradise, but a thriving fishing community with a population nearing 1000. My plans for a peaceful night camped on the beach and a solitary dawn were fast evaporating. Rodel explained that an ex-pat Australian called Tony lived on the island – in fact he was married to Rodel’s sister, Violet. It seemed that Tony had heard I was coming over and had invited us over to his place for drinks. Ever willing to go with the flow, I agreed to head up there with them after I’d seen the sun go down. Shortly after, I sat, undisturbed, on the sand-spit point of the island, watching the sun sinking behind Tablas’s mountainous backbone. I began to notice the wind increasing in strength and, as I turned to see ominous black thunderheads, the first spots of rain began to fall. In the 3 minutes it took me to walk back to Rodel’s, I managed to get completely soaked. However, the rain was so pleasantly warm that it was like stepping into the shower with clothes on. Forced to take cover by the tropical downpour, I sat talking with Rodel and some of his fishermen buddies, while the rain hammered against the corrugated tin roof. Although quite spacious and containing a newish TV, the shack was pretty basic…earth floors, plastic garden furniture and a dark recess in one corner, containing the toilet and a bucket for manual flushing. The work surfaces and crockery, however, were scrupulously clean – and the two healthy-looking kids being spoon-fed rice and fish by Rodel’s wife looked perfectly happy. We supped brandy and sprite as we chatted about the local politics. It seemed the previous Barangay captain had been corrupt and, despite bribes and threats during the election, Rodel had been returned in a landslide victory by a population that was sick of being conned. Rodel had already instituted regulations preventing fishing of the island’s waters by outsiders. He was also in the process of helping one of the island’s ex-pats set up a marine sanctuary on a reef – something that would ensure future tourist income on the island, as well as protecting its natural resources. It was refreshing to see democracy being given a chance to work in a place, like the Philippines, renowned for being corrupt. Despite their strong belief in Rodel’s leadership, it was plain that some of the men didn’t agree with all his policies. The biggest bugbear of the fishermen was that keeping the kids in school all day (8-4 here as opposed to 6-12 elsewhere), prevented them from helping their parents. As Rodel pointed out, education is the one thing that will help the next generation move forward – and keeping the kids in school also helps avoid problems such as delinquency. We were all agreed that Filipino children still have that degree of innocence and a respect for authority that is sadly missing in western society. Eventually, the rain subsided and Rodel took me round the other side of the island to meet his sister and brother-in-law.
First impressions of the Field family were extremely favourable. We were warmly welcomed and, before I knew it, plates of fish, rice and vegetables were being eagerly thrust under my nose. Violet turned out to be an attractive Sino-Filipina in her early forties…Tony, a little older, and looking very much like a white man who had grown used to the merciless heat of the tropics and now coped with ease. Their 19 year-old son, Joe, was intelligent and amiable - with a playful sense of humour. I was made to feel at ease by my gracious hosts and, before long, Tony was giving me a brief history of his time on Lugbung. As Rodel, had already suggested the local politics had not been conducive to progress in the area…many of Tony’s plans and dreams over the years had fallen by the wayside, due to a lack of support or filibustering by local politicians. The way Tony spoke about the island and the local people, you could see there was a genuine affection. Despite the shortcomings of living in the back of beyond, it seemed Tony was still committed to making a difference. Absorbed in our conversation, I didn’t notice time passing, but suddenly Rodel was seeing if I was ready to leave. Without warning, Tony and Violet were insisting that I stay in one of their empty houses and head back to the sandspit in the morning. Despite the fact that I didn’t have my toothbrush or a change of clothes, I could feel fate pushing me down this path and agreed. To my surprise and delight, I found a new toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and a towel in my beachside villa. Tony and I sat on the roof as the Milky Way rolled into view above the palm trees - and talked long into the night to the sound of waves breaking on the beach below. Tony prefers the simple life – shunning electric lighting and eating fruit grown mainly on his land. In his own small way, I could see that he was doing as much as anyone to preserve the ecology and the beauty of his surroundings. The scale of his project would become apparent in the light of day.
November 03, 2004
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