Part 1: Saved by Surfing – my Rise from manila slum to cloud 9
Manila
I write this sitting in a boulangerie. No, I am not in France, I am beside the Venice Grand Canal. And no, it’s not that tatty old has been of a maritime power in Italy, this is the Venice Grand Canal in Manila, a prettified if not entirely authentic version designed to draw locals and tourists alike to adjoining restaurants, shopping malls and luxury flats.
Manila seems to be short of attractions, which is why I ended up here today. Mind you, it wasn’t easy. I tried to order a Grab taxi from my hotel (Grab is the local Uber), but no taxi was found. So I asked reception about using the metro. There are two lines, both of which apparently get extraordinarily crowded and are hotbeds of pickpockets. The hotel wrote me instructions, but then decided they wouldn’t work, then started on bus instructions before giving up on them as well. I tried again unsuccessfully for a taxi, but the receptionist got one in seconds. And here I am.
Manila itself may be unattractive, but the people are friendly and most speak at least some English. I chatted more with the taxi driver from the airport than I did with everyone the whole of my stay in Japan. I chatted with the waitress at dinner last night and have made friends with the breakfast cook; quite the hectic social life in comparison.
My hotel is interesting. It is called Heroes Hotel and has a theme of, you’ll never guess, heroes. In reception stands a life size Iron Man, while Spider Man hangs from the ceiling and my room has a large poster of Che Guevarra. My friend the cook told me the owner goes in for iron man competitions and also raises money to provide food for the Manila street children. In front of the hotel is an unfinished extension to the Skyway, Manila’s elevated expressway, while at ground level there are four lanes of mostly stationary traffic in both directions. Fortunately the triple glazing effectively blocks the the otherwise very loud noise. From the rooftop restaurant and bar I looked down over the parapet after dinner at the lights of the traffic below; it was a little hypnotic, like staring into the flames of a a fire – always different but always the same. At least, that is what it felt like after one of their extra strong beers. Good job I didn’t have two.
Yesterday was interesting. I set out to walk from my hotel to the old Spanish area of Intramuros. It was, in theory, a walk of about an hour and twenty minutes, but after various diversions (mostly deliberate you will be surprised to hear) it took more like three and a half hours.
I had not gone far when the road crossed a small, dirty, smelly river. People had built shacks over the water. I was taking a photo when a woman approached and pointed out her home to me – one of the shacks. We got talking and she invited me to see her home. The narrow path led alongside the river past other shacks where people sat and went about their business while small cats roamed everywhere. Her home consisted of two small rooms above the water, roofed with corrugated iron, air conditioned by openings under the roof, along which I glimpsed something that looked very like a rat running. The total area was about three times the size of my capsule room in Japan, although I could stand up. She had a fridge and a small stove on the floor. Her 15 year old daughter was at school. She also had an 18 year old son with mental health issues; I wasn’t clear whether he lived there as well. When it rains heavily the stinking water rises and floods her home.
We walked on and saw more shacks and even more polluted water. It was quite shocking to see the filth and how people have to live. Mary Jane, my guide, wore clean clothes; to look at her you would not think she lived in a tiny shack over dirty water. She never asked for anything or tried to sell me anything; just showed me around. Before we parted I gave her some money, for which she was very grateful. And I felt grateful that I have a modestly comfortable hotel and a more comfortable home to return to.
Resuming my walk I passed through a street market full of strange and not altogether wholesome smells, where plucked chickens sat in the heat and the flies, and the passage between the stalls got narrower and narrower. I was glad when I finally emerged.
My next challenge was fighting off cycle rickshaw men who wanted to take me around Intramuros. They were so persistent I even had to escape into a museum, the National Anthropology Museum, where displays of native peoples and salvaged shipwrecks were moderately interesting, but I especially appreciated the air conditioning.
Finally arriving in Intramuros the colonial style buildings made a pleasant change from modern Manila’s concrete blocks and thrown together shacks. I looked around Fort Santiago, a stronghold by the river built by the Spanish to defend their 300 year rule of the Philippines from Dutch and British ambitions. We actually held Intramuros for a few years during a war with the Spanish. Inside there is a museum in memory of Jose Rizal, who I had never heard of before. He is a big national hero, having inspired the independence movement and been shot by the Spanish in 1896. Just two years later the country was independent.
I completed my day’s tour by looking at another recommended site, Manila Cathedral. I wasn’t very impressed; as cathedrals go it was quite austere and lacking in style and decoration, although it had some colourful stained glass so high that it was hard to appreciate. Nor did it feel very spiritual; it felt as much like a museum as a church.
Surigao
It had not taken long to exhaust the attractions of Manila, with exhaust being the operative word, both from the traffic fumes and the effect of walking around in the heat and noise, so I was glad to take a plane to Surigao. This is a relatively small island off the north east coast of Mindanao, the southernmost large island of the Philippines and is pronounced Shergou (that’s ou as in ouch). It is well known for its surfing at various points around the coast; not that I am a surfer, but it sounded rather idyllic, so I booked myself into a one bedroom bungalow close to Cloud 9, the main surfing area of the town of General Luna.
I arrived late afternoon after a two and a half hour flight and 45 minutes in a van (it had seats and windows), so it was dark when I set out to find dinner at Mama’s Grill, which had been recommended by a Swiss guy in the van. The three miles from my room to General Luna is patrolled by motor tricycles who will take you anywhere on that stretch for 20 pesos (about 30p), so I did some calculations and decided my budget could stretch to this little luxury. Perched on the little seat, and holding on tightly as we bounced over the bumpy road, I was soon at the grill, where at least 80 people were sitting on stools and benches at tables under a large awning. I ordered my meal on arrival and found about the only spare seat at a table with two Filipino girls. I did try to make conversation, but their mobile phones were far more interesting than an old bloke from England. Take me back to Lijiang! However, after a while I was joined by an Aussie guy from Melbourne and enjoyed conversation with him. Meanwhile my chicken was being cooked, along with dozens of other people’s meals, on a massive barbecue, and a very good job the cook did because it was very tasty. It was accompanied by a large helping of rice but no vegetables, which seems to be the standard way of things here.
In the morning I explored my new surroundings. Alongside the local road are little houses, many of them no more than shacks, interspersed with coconut palms. People sit at the front of their houses watching the world go by. It all sounds very pleasant, and in a way it was, but somehow the whole place felt rather tatty, not run-down as such, more that it had never run-up. It feels like it could be so much more if there was investment and care for the environment. Nothing seems to be quite finished properly. In my bungalow, for instance, the only mirror hangs from a nail in the bathroom right next to the shower; there is no shower screen so to use the mirror after showering and getting dressed you get wet feet again. The basin has a plug that won’t block the water and there is no hot tap. Shrubs have been planted around the garden outside, but there is no paved path across the wet dirt to the door. The whole area, with the exception of a few new developments, seems to be the same. Perhaps I should not apply western standards to a developing country, but it seems a shame that developments are not carried out more carefully and thoroughly.
I left the road and headed for what I imagined would be sun-kissed white sand beaches where I would lie under shading palm fronds as the blue water lapped the shore. The reality was a little different. There certainly are lots of palm trees, and there are sandy beaches around somewhere, but right here the shore is mostly a flat rocky shelf, partly covered by shallow water at low tide. A boardwalk leads over the rocks to a platform from where surfboards are launched and spectators can watch. I walked to the end and sat on a bench to admire the altogether less appealing than expected view. There were few swimmers and boarders, but I was told that boarding would get going properly around 2.00 pm as the tide came in. I sat and chatted for a good hour or more to Jose, an American from Michigan who grew up in Davao in the south of Mindanao. He told me the clean beaches there that he used to swim on as boy were now filthy because the government does not care about the environment. He recommended an island hopping trip from General Luna, so I found some lunch and then splashed out on a motor tricycle to go to the town and inquire about a trip.
Information acquired, I returned to the boardwalk to watch the surfing. The rollers were not large, but with rocks beneath it looked dodgy to me. Nevertheless there were plenty of people in the water, some staying upright to ride the waves, many others, obviously novices, struggling to even kneel on their boards even with the assistance of their instructors. I watched a guy about my age with a very large and very white belly take to the water. If he ever managed to stand up, I didn’t see it. Ha! I thought scornfully. And then I thought, actually, he is in the water giving it a go while I sit on a seat and watch. And it was then that a dangerous thought arose: if he can get out there, then so should I. I tested this idea and found lots of reasons why I shouldn’t: I have never surfed; I am not a good swimmer; there are rocks; I have no one to look after my things while I am in the water. And then I thought, I can’t stay in a surfing resort and not have a go. Damn. I resolved to ask at my bungalow who they recommended as an instructor.
The next morning I approached my host and asked him, hypothetically, just supposing, if I wanted to surf, who should I contact. The next thing I knew I was booked for a one hour lesson that afternoon. No going back now!
The fateful hour approached and I donned my swimming trunks for the first time on this trip; at least I hadn’t carried them all this way for nothing. I met my instructor, John, a 25 year old who looked lean and muscular, just like I did at his age; well, I think I did – the memory can get a little hazy these days. I practised on the platform before getting into the water: how to lie on the board; how to get up; how to stand; how to fall off without hurting myself. It all seemed pretty straightforward. What could go wrong
We used the boardwalk to get to a suitable launching point. I carefully climbed down the slippery wooden stairs; I didn’t want a disaster before I even got in the water. It was then time to lie on the board and paddle out to slightly deeper water where the waves were breaking. That took a little while, even with John doing most of the work pulling the board along; lying on my front with my head in the air to see where I was going gave me a stiff neck before I was half way there. This surfing business was getting tough!
We finally got to the right place. John faced the board in the right direction, waited for the right moment, told me to get ready, gave me a push and told me to stand up. I half stood up and promptly capsized. Back we went to try again, and again – and again. I gradually managed to stand up and even surf a few metres before finding as many different ways to fall off as possible.
Eventually, after creatively body slamming down on the board and deciding that was not a great idea, I managed to stay upright all the way until a wave ran out. I was even able to repeat the feat a few times. I don’t know how well the average newbie does, but I was dead chuffed – I had thought I might not be able to stand up at all, but I had ridden a few waves. Yeah! I’m a surfer, dude! Now I just have to grow my hair long and wear a baseball cap backwards.
After all that excitement I decided to take a relaxing boat trip on Monday. My host arranged it and I was picked up by a motor tricycle at 7.00 am and taken to the pier at General Luna where my captain and his mate, a father and son, awaited with their boat, a 35 feet outrigger. After father steered out from the pier with a long bamboo pole, son started first one, and then a second extremely noisy engine. I moved towards the front of the boat to reduce the noise, but that turned out to be a bad idea. We were heading straight into the swell and a stiff breeze; there were whitecaps on the water and the boat would ride up one wave and then crash down into the next sending showers of spray over me. I moved back again but it was still pretty wet. Fortunately the water here is warm and even on such an overcast day the temperature was around 29 C, so I was not cold even when my T-shirt was soaked.
Our first stop was Naked Island. I was all set to strip off when I realised in the nick of time that the name came from the fact that the island was naked of trees, not the people of clothes. Could have been embarrassing. It was just a sand bar, with more exposed at low tide (rather like I nearly was). Someone has planted coconut palms on it, presumably to stabilise the sand, so it may not be naked for much longer. Well, there wasn’t much to see or do after taking five minutes to walk around, so we set off for our second stop, Daku Island. Now we had the wind and swell behind us, so the going was easier.
Daku is a much larger island, with at least one village complete with school. This was the stop scheduled for a meal; it was a bit soon for lunch but it had been an early start and the sea air had given me an appetite, so I enjoyed the barbecued chicken and rice. And I took advantage of the white sand beach to have a swim, before exploring the village. No motor vehicles here – and no road, just sandy paths between the little houses and palm trees. Most houses looked like they had been constructed of whatever came to hand: MDF, plywood or coconut matting walls, and corrugated iron or woven palm fronds for roofing. It does not get cold here, except perhaps in severe storms, but it does rain a lot at least part of the year. I did not fancy having to rely on one of these houses to keep me snug and dry.
We moved on to our final stop, Guyan Island, only a little larger than Naked Island, but covered with palms. More of the same really, except that you couldn’t really swim because there were rocks almost everywhere. Half way there son cut the engines and urgently called father, who came to the stern carrying an adjustable spanner. It did not bode well. I am not sure what the problem was – probably just the rudder falling apart or some other minor thing; in any event father soon had it fixed and we were on our way. The approach to the island was taken very carefully from a long way out because of the shallow water. Father watched for rocks from the front of the boat while son just gently tickled the throttle. We made it safely to and from the shore and after exploring the limited local delights headed back to General Luna. Here the water was now too low to tie up to the pier so instead there was a long walk through the shallows to get on dry land.
On reflection, I am glad I had the trip and enjoyed seeing the islands, but it could have been more enjoyable if father and son had been more talkative. Unlike most Filipinos I have met so far, they were quite uncommunicative. I would have liked to talk about the boat and their life but they weren’t interested in talking, perhaps because their English was limited; they just did their job of taking me to the islands and that was that.
I spent a few hours in the afternoon relaxing in my room and writing up the blog before going out for dinner. When I got back my host was waiting for me. He hadn’t seen me earlier and had been worried. He later explained that a guest had recently gone missing for four days from a neighbouring guest house. It turned out he was dead after crashing his rented motorbike when driving back drunk after dinner. Scooters and motorcycles are by far the commonest form of transport here and are cheap to rent. People often drive without helmets and never with protective clothing, ignoring basic safety rules that are standard in the west. Unfortunately, in consequence accidents are not unusual.
Part 2: Bohol
Panglao
I was picked up from my Siargao guest house at 10.00 am by a van to take me to the airport, where a short 1.15 flight would get me to Cebu in time to take the 3.20 fast ferry to Tagbilaran at the southern tip of Bohol, a few miles from my next destination on Panglao Island. I expected to be there by 6.00 pm, 7.00 pm at the latest. It didn’t quite work like that: I actually arrived at 2.30 am the next morning.
All went well to start with; the plane was a few minutes late and traffic in Cebu City was heavy, so I would have to catch the 4.20 rather than the 3.20 ferry. Not a problem – until I got to the Pier 1 ferry terminal and found that the fast ferries had all been cancelled that evening; apparently they are rather small ships and could not cope with the rough seas. The next one was going to be at 5.20 am, and they weren’t even sure about that one. There was a larger, slow ferry leaving at 10.00 pm, but that would not get to Tagbilaran until 3.00 am; not an attractive proposition. I was mulling my options when someone told me there was a ferry going from another pier to Tubigon, an hour’s drive north of Tagbilaran, leaving at 7.00 pm and due to arrive at 8.30 pm. Ok, I thought, 8.30 in Tubigon, an hour to Tagbilaran, I should be at my guest house by 10.00 pm. Not great, but the best option available.
I found the right pier, found the ticket office outside the pier and booked myself an air conditioned seat on the ship. Being a senior, I even got to jump the queue and get a discount. It was now 4.30 pm and things were looking up. I was lucky to find a seat in the very crowded pier waiting room, but not so lucky when at 6.30 an announcement informed us that the ferry was delayed. After conflicting announcements and much confusion we boarded at 7.30 and left the dock at 8.00, so my ETA at the guest house was now 11.00 pm.
The ship had lost another 15 minutes by the time we reached Tubigon harbour and started manoeuvring to dock. And carried on manoeuvring. And on. And on. After an hour of this an announcement informed us that strong currents were the problem. The crew kept attempting to dock while the passengers, with the exception of one person (guess who), waited extremely patiently. Eventually, after two and a half hours of trying, the ship successfully docked and we could disembark. It was 12.15 am.
The next challenge was to find a van going to Tagbilaran, which I eventually did, a 20 minute walk outside the dock, and was fortunate to get the last seat in what appeared to be the only van on offer. We drove through torrential rain which fortunately eased off before Tagbilaran, where I found a motor tricycle for the last leg of the journey. Crossing the bridge onto Panglao Island we entered complete darkness; there was a power cut. The light from the headlight was so feeble that I could not even see it on the road. The speedo was not lit up, but it probably didn’t work anyway (most of them don’t); however I could see from the GPS on my phone that we were doing a maximum of 15 mph. At one point the street lights were lit from some alternative source; my driver opened up the throttle and in just a few minutes we hit 20 mph.
Back in the darkness, the GPS took us down a little side road. After a while the hard surface ran out and we bounced over a very rough road. We reached a point where the GPS was telling me that my guest house was a few yards off the road. I dismissed my driver and set off on foot in the pitch dark. A dog started barking; then another, and another until the whole neighbourhood must have been awake. I couldn’t see any house names. I called gently over a gate “Hello”. Nothing. I tried again. Someone appeared. “Is this Blue Summer Suites?” I asked hopefully. “No” came the reply, “That’s 500 metres back up the lane near the main road.” The map had the wrong location for the property. I trudged back up the lane and found my poor hostess waiting for me. With waiting up for me it hadn’t been a good night for her either. It was 2.30 am and I was very glad to have made it. Finally.
I didn’t have an early start the next day, but I did have an excellent brunch at my guest house, fresh mango and pineapple followed by a full English breakfast with very tasty sausages. I had not had a proper meal the day before and it was good to have the things you miss when travelling in exotic climes. Talking of which it is hot here, hot and humid; I find it quite exhausting and need to cool down at every opportunity. At the end of the lane where I had stumbled around the previous night there is a beach; nothing special, really just used by local people and not particularly well cared for judging by the items of rubbish, but pleasant enough. I had a good long soak in the sea; I had it all to myself apart from a guy mending his boat. And that was my day. Pretty uneventful.
I only had one more day on Panglao so I resolved to get further afield the next day and took a motor tricycle to Alona Beach, reputed to be one of the best white sand beaches in the whole country. Unfortunately, no one had told me that the entire beach is covered at high tide, and I had inadvertently timed it perfectly, perfectly wrongly that is. While the local beach the day before had been calm and sheltered, rollers were running in on Alona Beach and hardly anyone was braving the surf for a swim. I watched people trying to board the little boats that would take them island hopping. They would wade out up to their knees only to be engulfed by a crashing wave as the boat reared up and down. It was excellent entertainment.
I like the occasional swim in the sea and will even sunbathe for a little while if it is not too hot, but I am not what you would call a beach person, so maybe my judgement of Alona Beach is a little harsh. I felt it was spoilt by all the developments, many of which came right to the high tide mark. As seems to be the way in the Philippines, there were one or two upmarket places and lots of rather scruffy cafes and shops with no overall plan for the layout. I did not find it relaxing, especially with people trying to sell me boat rides or a massage on the beach. I walked up and down the length of the beach, stopped for a (watered down) fresh fruit juice and decided it was time to leave.
I took a jeepney, the little local buses of the Philippines, and visited San Agustin church. Now this was more like it. In a much more relaxed, laid back area the church, although quite simple, is also beautiful. Inside the paintings and statues are probably not going to win any awards, yet I found the whole effect quite peaceful and spiritual, as if love had gone into its creation. I much preferred it to Manila Cathedral.
It was only 1.00 pm but the heat was very tiring, so I headed back to my room and cooled down with the air con before walking down the lane and enjoying the local beach again.
loboc
The next day I set off for Loboc. It was only 20 miles away but it took a couple of hours plus a stop for lunch travelling by jeepneys, three in all for a grand total fare of £0.72. Not bad, if pretty crowded and uncomfortable.
Loboc is a little way inland up the Loboc River on the island of Bohol. I liked its laid back small town feel and the scenic hills above the rice fields surrounding it. I had another ‘deluxe’ room. The Philippines seems to use this term in a way completely new to me; certainly the only thing remotely deluxe about the accommodation was the air con, and that is pretty standard here. The mattress was thin and there was no chair, just a couple of stools. There was no hot water in the wash basin (again, standard here), but no hot water in the shower was a novel twist.
I had developed a sore throat the previous day; it got worse and then turned into a cold, but I only had two days to see some of the sights so I soldiered bravely on (cue for sympathy), even though people I encountered probably wished I hadn’t.
The guest house recommended the buffet lunch on a floating restaurant, organised a ticket for me and took me there. I couldn’t fault their service even if the room was not as comfortable as I had hoped. These floating meals turned out to be a huge business; there are perhaps 22 boats each seating about 80 people coming and going all the time. Each trip takes an hour and includes both on board entertainment from a keyboard player and singer, and folk dancing from local ladies and girls where our boat moored for 5 minutes. The food wasn’t bad and the trip up the river was very pleasant.
Later in the afternoon I took a walk on the road by the river and was offered a beer by a group of guys sitting in a little shelter on the bank. It would have been churlish to refuse, so I joined them for a while. They had obviously been there for some time – there was a crate of empty beer bottles, the extra strong (6.9%) stuff, and they were enjoying the Saturday afternoon. One of them explained that Filipino culture wasn’t like European culture where we work all the time; here they work one day and relax the rest of the week. He was only half joking. Leaving them, I walked along a road between rice fields. Every few hundred yards there was a group of children playing in the road, most of them wanting to ‘high five’ with me. It was all very relaxed; there are tourists staying in the town, but not too many; most of the floating restaurant guests are bused in from Panglao and elsewhere.
I had been thinking of renting a motor scooter to look further afield the next day, but I was feeling quite rough by this time and decided I would be safer and more comfortable in an air conditioned car with a driver, a luxury that on a long trip like this I do not run to very often. He picked me up at 9.00 the next morning for a tour of the sights.
We started at a wildlife park – a zoo. I am not particularly keen on zoos, preferring to see animals in the wild, but it was cheap to enter and a chance to see how the Philippines treats animals. I joined a small group and we were given a guided tour that was interesting – and we did see some wild animals living in the trees of the zoo: the tiny tarsier monkeys native to the southern Philippines. They hide in the shade of leaves, curled up in a little ball no bigger than your fist. The animals all seem well provided for but there was one I did not like to see – the lion, pacing back and forth in a large cage. I expressed my opinion, to be told that they were planning to make the enclosure larger.
Our next stop was the Chocolate Hills. A big tourist draw, these approximately 1500 small dome shaped hills rise from a plain and turn brown in the dry season, hence the name. I climbed the steps to a viewing platform atop one of the hills from where more hills could be seen in every direction. Although mostly more lime than chocolate at this time of year, the hills are certainly an impressive view.
I declined the rather expensive quad biking over a boring looking flat course and we headed for the twin hanging bridges. Originally suspended on ropes, but now on steel cables, these bridges retain their bamboo flooring, which bounces beautifully as you walk across the swaying bridge with the river beneath you. Quite fun.
My driver next took me to a giant zip wire across a valley. It looked like something that had to be done, but my first priority was to buy more tissues for my continuously streaming nose and my second was to get some lunch. The first was quickly achieved but the second took three tries before we found somewhere that appeared to have edible food. Fortunately, appearances were not deceptive and I had a moderately decent meal. Eating in this country is easier than Japan, and much easier than China, but I still have to be pretty picky.
I was feeling too rough by this time for the zip wire, so we finished our tour with a trip to a small butterfly farm where, being the only visitor, I had a guide all to myself. Slightly strangely for a butterfly farm, the biggest attraction was a large python that I was persuaded to hold. Must have been my day for getting up close and personal with birds and reptiles.
Rob's Roads 