rhymer's travel diary

Nice Guys

The Filipinos are probably the nicest, friendliest people in South East Asia. Once shorn of the nutter at Marinduque's port I'd got myself a tricycle driver. We'd agreed a price and then he'd just wandered off (nice does not mean punctual or urgent). So after about ten minutes or so, I'd wandered off too and found myself an AC van - at a better price and hopped in. No big deal, right? Well not until the first driver reappeared and got a bit upset. I explained the deal and got back into the van - then my new driver went out to mollify the man.

Naturally I'd assumed that they were having a furious argument and that they'd be telling each other to f-k off in pretty short order, this being the way of third world taxi wars. But no, when I poked my head around the door, driver number two was smoothing feathers and ensuring the fist man's feelings weren't hurt. I was astiounded, but he really cared, not an emotion I've ever associated with taxi drivers, anywhere on the planet before.

Earlier I'd been reading an opinion piece in the Philippine Inquirer suggesting that this 'national softness' was a problem and was why the Filipinos tended to get walked all over by their corrupt leaders and then - a la Imelda Marcos - forgive them almost completely. He had a point, although I suspect the real reason Imelda has been forgiven is that, in reality, she was no better or worse than anyone before or after her. She just liked shoes a lot. Still, the writer was right inasmuch as the citizens of this country really could, if anything, be a bit nastier. I mean, by and large you can even trust people on the streets of Manila.

Handlebar Keeper

Anyway driver number two delivered me to the Kalata beach resort which had to wake its owner allow me in. Marinduquean night-life isn't up to much and folk get up at 5am, meaning that by 10:30, everyone's tucked up in bed.

The next morning I checked out the place I'd checked into. The resort (which over here means pretty much anything) was a nice enough place, probably the best on the island and a snip at a fiver a night. It was run by Josie a no-nonsense woman who I certainly wouldn't cross and her cook who was very, very sweet, which somewhat mitigated her terrible cooking. The only other guests were an Austrian in his fifties with a splendid handlebar moustache and his local girlfriend who was (natch) half his age.

The Austrian (who, of a morning liked to swim in his underpants, an entirely discomfiting sight) was a return guest, Josie told me. Each time he returned, he did so with a different girlfriend. Perhaps because men like this usually get such a rough time from people my age, I resolved to be as friendly to him as possible. My overtures were greeting with some suspicion - and rightly so - I think he guessed that I coveted his magnificent handlebar.
Island Life and Death

Mariduque - with a few exceptions is a lovely little place. It doesn't have white sand beaches, but I am no beach snob so this was not a problem, but the swimming was good and green, felty hills rose to about 1200 metres from a wine-dark sea. The capital, Boac, was a tiny place and one of the few agreeable towns I've been to in the country. Along with extensive flowers and charmingly decrepit old wooden houses, it boasted a rather maginificent Spanish catherdral with an attached bishops house. This had the largest concrete Jesus I've seen in my life outside, but I guess that's the law. You get to be bishop, you get the biggest Jesus in town.

There is, of course, nothing to do which is sort of the point of sleepy tropical islands and there were no other tourists (my fellow guest and sex tourist aside). On the second day, on my way up to Boac, I bumped into an Englishman who'd retired here along with his local wife. He was in his fifties and so was his wife: I was astounded.

They invited me over for dinner - to a house with a remarkably English interior a cutely English garden and an equally English Great Dane the size of a pony. They also cooked me something approximating European food which was pretty exciting. Gerald lived down in the ex-pat region of the island, which contained all of a dozen foreigners, most living as he did, a life of retired relative luxury praying for continued political stability - or just that the communists stayed on the other side of the island. I did however bump into one who'd gone a bit too native and looked like an extra from apocalypse now.

Gerald's life looked pretty idyllic, but I wasn't so sure. We talked about this and that, he did the usual third world ex-pat thing and spent ages telling me how screwed the Philippines was. I vaguely wondered how his wife felt about this, but she was in her own way as much of an ex-pat as he (they'd met working in the Emriates) and they had no roots anywhere.

After a while, I got the impression that life down in Buena Vista must be one long snooze. My inevitable question 'What do you do?' was met with the response that there was plenty of time for reading. Yes, a library I'd have guessed. I also got the feeling that Gerald, a bright guy, rather wanted for intellectual stimulation - all his time was spent in the company of people who spoke English as a second language, and usually pretty badly. The possible exception being the Apocalypse now guy.

As a result he'd developed a curious redundancy of speech. If for example he was relating a story about how a man had made a pass at him, he'd then go on to explain that he was queer. It was a shame for it gave his stories a leaden aspect. He did however, tell me one story so good that no about of verbal triplicate could dull it.

Apparently, a year ago a man had drowned in the reservoir above Manila. His corpse had been washed into the municipal water pipes. Officials realized this, but what they didn't know was where it had been caught. It took a week to find the decomposing unfortunate, during which time, the lucky citizens of the city got a glass with a tiny bit of drowned man every time they switched on the tap.