Friday, October 21, 2005
Nuwara Eilya is to the wealthy citizens of Colombo what the Hamptons is to New YorkÕs smart set and the difference in levels of chi-chi speaks volumes about the relative wealth of NYC and the Sri Lankan capital. Nonetheless, I was there on a full moon weekend, the equivalent of bank holiday, and all the hotels had jacked their prices up by 300% to levels approaching #15, not #5. This was causing something of a stir in certain sections of the traveler community, what with places charging between five and eight times what their desperately clutched Lonely Planets told them would be the case.
Indeed, the fact that Sri Lanka isnÕt quite dirt cheap was something of a perennial gripe. One Dutch woman who arrived after me was aghast at our hotelÕs tariff Ð how could this be? I explained. She said she would look elsewhere. I countered that I had been to the hotels she was considering that they were just as expensive and,more importantly, completely full Ð with Sri Lankans, damn them. What she wanted to know did I suggest she do? I suggested she paid up and shut up. Amazingly, she shrugged acquiescence and did just that. Next up was a group of Germans who were made of sterner stuff. TheyÕre probably still stomping about in the rain, the stupid nickel f-ckers.
As Nuwara Eilya looked like it was set for an afternoonÕs rain, I headed off ona tea factory tour. It was a terrible road with water streaming off the hillsides and, presently, my driver screeched to a halt. ÔLookÕ he said. I scoped for a beautiful mountain or charming bit of wildlife. But no it was bus that had plunged off the road into a field 50 metres below. ÔThree dead,Õ he said, Ôoh dear.Õ His co driver filled me in on the rest of the details Ð a couple of them local boys, apparently Ð and we were off.
My tea factory tour wasnÕt the biggest deal in the world, but it was surprisingly interesting. Escorted by an atractive woman in a Sari bearing the factory logo, I learned that Tea is the countryÕs second biggest crop after tourism and that coconut products are no. 3. To my surprise, I discovered that from picking to packing only takes 24 hours and that the higher up the hill tea is the finer the taste. And historically I was told that the reason the hill folk tend to be dark is because many are descended from low-caste Tamils from India who were bought in when the locals refused to do the job; also the only reason Sri Lanka grows so much of the stuff is because blight wiped out the entire coffee crop in the 19th century. Afterwards, I got to take a couple of appallingly contrived and heavily staged snaps of a tea lady picking tea and drank a rather nice cuppa, next to a sign exhorting me to Ôdrink a cup of factory fresh tea;Õ I guess when the stuff grows all around you thereÕs no need to get all misty eyed and lyrical about its natural provenance.
That evening I hung around the guest house and chatted to a German girl who looked middle-eastern. She herself commented on this saying people were always asking her if she was an Israeli; she was, she said always being offered hash, etc/ in places like this. I offered her some sympathy: young Israelis (often fresh from military service) are the louts of the traveling world and their appalling behavior is well known. Of course, she said, awkwardly ÔAs a German, even if I agreed with you, I wouldnÕt say so.Õ Considering this was her second language, I thought this a deft bit of verbal diplomacy.
The next day I climbed up a modest local mountain as you cannot climb SLÕs highest peak which fairly bristles with military hadware. My walk took me through one of the ubiquitous tea plantation, this time in bright sunshine, and this time with real tea pickers, rather than the set up kind, at work. The tea pickers actually have a very nice sideline: they exhort you take pictures and then ask for ÔpresentsÕ, i.e. cash. As I had managed to forget my wallet and had only a load of #2 coins in a pocket of my rucksack, my little Ceylonese David Bailey experience cost me slightly more than my hotel.
That afternoon, I hung around NEÕs rather beautifully manicured Victoria Park Ð hillstations have a climate that just encourages stuff to grow, but not the vulgarity of jungle. I also completed my gastro (as in gastro-enteritis) tour of the townÕs three restaurants that were worth eating in, just. I then went back to the guesthouse and spent a couple of hours talking with the owners and the German girl; one of the owners had been caught in the Tsunami along with his girlfriend, both had survived.
Then another Group of Germans appeared (despite there being no obvious historical connection, Germans love SL like no other nation) and started speaking to Tanya, the German girl. She was clearly making polite excuses. The owners asked her what he had asked her. ÔOhÕ, she said, Ôthey want to know if I would like to come upstairs and watch their videos of their holidays in Sri Lanka. But I think I would prefer to sit here and talk to people in my second language.Õ It is perhaps obvious to point out that, leaving aside the tediousness of holiday videos, that it is premature and poor form to watch them while still on holiday. Still, there was no stopping them and when I retired an hour and a half later, they were still busily gawping at footage of themselves looking foolishin front of ancient monuments.
The following day I got the train out of town talking briefly talking to a young local couple who were very pleasant in an old fashioned way and a young woman from Huddersfield who was here to do tsunami work; she was given to statements like Ôwell, of course, theyÕre all corrupt, arenÕt they?Õ I was steeling myself for four hours of this, but, amazingly, she buried her head in some chick lit and that was the end of it.
A few hours later I realized IÕd got the wrong train. After four hours of stunning jungle and rock formations (cool for about an hour) I found myself in a station in the middle of nowhere. I copped some lunch at a place that shrieked food poisoning, drank water from the jug on the table (in for a penny) and drank the worldÕs cheapest tea Ð 1p a cup. Then I took a train north because my intended destinationÕs train was nine hours away. Next to me was a port authority policeman who told me that if I got off at the next stop IÕd be able to get a bus; they ran every five minutes.
My new found friend wasnÕt a shyster or anything. But his desire to help was exceeded only by an inability to do so usefully. He dragged me all over town via buses and tuk-tuks and eventually I asked him if I could just get a cab. Alas no, but I could get a bus. A bus for my destination arrived Ð this one? No. Get an A/C much better. OK. So no more buses arrived for an hour. No more buses arrived for another hour; it was after 5 oÕclock. Then an A/C bus came. It was the last of the day. It was full. I hope if I ever really need apoliceman, I do not run into this guy.
Eventually, by practically throwing himself in front of the thing he talked them into letting me on. I got to stand in a minibus for two hours and then sit in a seat designed for a dwarf for an hour. And the A/C didnÕt work. And they dropped me 6km from the town I was supposed to go to.
After 20 minutes I found a tuk-tuk whose driver would only take me to a hotel that cost #70 a night and sucked. Apparently Queen Elizabeth had stayed there in 1958 when it sucked less; not much maintenance had been done since. After an argument Ð they could do me roaches for #60 at a pinch Ð I ditched the driver and walked next door to the hotel next door which also sucked. It had rooms which looked like they would make a stylish venue for an interrogation or the kind of place that s-x games go tragically wrong. But they only cost #6. If I am going to sleep in somewhere with an exciting range of insect life in my cell-like room, I expect the price to be right.
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Indeed, the fact that Sri Lanka isnÕt quite dirt cheap was something of a perennial gripe. One Dutch woman who arrived after me was aghast at our hotelÕs tariff Ð how could this be? I explained. She said she would look elsewhere. I countered that I had been to the hotels she was considering that they were just as expensive and,more importantly, completely full Ð with Sri Lankans, damn them. What she wanted to know did I suggest she do? I suggested she paid up and shut up. Amazingly, she shrugged acquiescence and did just that. Next up was a group of Germans who were made of sterner stuff. TheyÕre probably still stomping about in the rain, the stupid nickel f-ckers.
As Nuwara Eilya looked like it was set for an afternoonÕs rain, I headed off ona tea factory tour. It was a terrible road with water streaming off the hillsides and, presently, my driver screeched to a halt. ÔLookÕ he said. I scoped for a beautiful mountain or charming bit of wildlife. But no it was bus that had plunged off the road into a field 50 metres below. ÔThree dead,Õ he said, Ôoh dear.Õ His co driver filled me in on the rest of the details Ð a couple of them local boys, apparently Ð and we were off.
My tea factory tour wasnÕt the biggest deal in the world, but it was surprisingly interesting. Escorted by an atractive woman in a Sari bearing the factory logo, I learned that Tea is the countryÕs second biggest crop after tourism and that coconut products are no. 3. To my surprise, I discovered that from picking to packing only takes 24 hours and that the higher up the hill tea is the finer the taste. And historically I was told that the reason the hill folk tend to be dark is because many are descended from low-caste Tamils from India who were bought in when the locals refused to do the job; also the only reason Sri Lanka grows so much of the stuff is because blight wiped out the entire coffee crop in the 19th century. Afterwards, I got to take a couple of appallingly contrived and heavily staged snaps of a tea lady picking tea and drank a rather nice cuppa, next to a sign exhorting me to Ôdrink a cup of factory fresh tea;Õ I guess when the stuff grows all around you thereÕs no need to get all misty eyed and lyrical about its natural provenance.
That evening I hung around the guest house and chatted to a German girl who looked middle-eastern. She herself commented on this saying people were always asking her if she was an Israeli; she was, she said always being offered hash, etc/ in places like this. I offered her some sympathy: young Israelis (often fresh from military service) are the louts of the traveling world and their appalling behavior is well known. Of course, she said, awkwardly ÔAs a German, even if I agreed with you, I wouldnÕt say so.Õ Considering this was her second language, I thought this a deft bit of verbal diplomacy.
The next day I climbed up a modest local mountain as you cannot climb SLÕs highest peak which fairly bristles with military hadware. My walk took me through one of the ubiquitous tea plantation, this time in bright sunshine, and this time with real tea pickers, rather than the set up kind, at work. The tea pickers actually have a very nice sideline: they exhort you take pictures and then ask for ÔpresentsÕ, i.e. cash. As I had managed to forget my wallet and had only a load of #2 coins in a pocket of my rucksack, my little Ceylonese David Bailey experience cost me slightly more than my hotel.
That afternoon, I hung around NEÕs rather beautifully manicured Victoria Park Ð hillstations have a climate that just encourages stuff to grow, but not the vulgarity of jungle. I also completed my gastro (as in gastro-enteritis) tour of the townÕs three restaurants that were worth eating in, just. I then went back to the guesthouse and spent a couple of hours talking with the owners and the German girl; one of the owners had been caught in the Tsunami along with his girlfriend, both had survived.
Then another Group of Germans appeared (despite there being no obvious historical connection, Germans love SL like no other nation) and started speaking to Tanya, the German girl. She was clearly making polite excuses. The owners asked her what he had asked her. ÔOhÕ, she said, Ôthey want to know if I would like to come upstairs and watch their videos of their holidays in Sri Lanka. But I think I would prefer to sit here and talk to people in my second language.Õ It is perhaps obvious to point out that, leaving aside the tediousness of holiday videos, that it is premature and poor form to watch them while still on holiday. Still, there was no stopping them and when I retired an hour and a half later, they were still busily gawping at footage of themselves looking foolishin front of ancient monuments.
The following day I got the train out of town talking briefly talking to a young local couple who were very pleasant in an old fashioned way and a young woman from Huddersfield who was here to do tsunami work; she was given to statements like Ôwell, of course, theyÕre all corrupt, arenÕt they?Õ I was steeling myself for four hours of this, but, amazingly, she buried her head in some chick lit and that was the end of it.
A few hours later I realized IÕd got the wrong train. After four hours of stunning jungle and rock formations (cool for about an hour) I found myself in a station in the middle of nowhere. I copped some lunch at a place that shrieked food poisoning, drank water from the jug on the table (in for a penny) and drank the worldÕs cheapest tea Ð 1p a cup. Then I took a train north because my intended destinationÕs train was nine hours away. Next to me was a port authority policeman who told me that if I got off at the next stop IÕd be able to get a bus; they ran every five minutes.
My new found friend wasnÕt a shyster or anything. But his desire to help was exceeded only by an inability to do so usefully. He dragged me all over town via buses and tuk-tuks and eventually I asked him if I could just get a cab. Alas no, but I could get a bus. A bus for my destination arrived Ð this one? No. Get an A/C much better. OK. So no more buses arrived for an hour. No more buses arrived for another hour; it was after 5 oÕclock. Then an A/C bus came. It was the last of the day. It was full. I hope if I ever really need apoliceman, I do not run into this guy.
Eventually, by practically throwing himself in front of the thing he talked them into letting me on. I got to stand in a minibus for two hours and then sit in a seat designed for a dwarf for an hour. And the A/C didnÕt work. And they dropped me 6km from the town I was supposed to go to.
After 20 minutes I found a tuk-tuk whose driver would only take me to a hotel that cost #70 a night and sucked. Apparently Queen Elizabeth had stayed there in 1958 when it sucked less; not much maintenance had been done since. After an argument Ð they could do me roaches for #60 at a pinch Ð I ditched the driver and walked next door to the hotel next door which also sucked. It had rooms which looked like they would make a stylish venue for an interrogation or the kind of place that s-x games go tragically wrong. But they only cost #6. If I am going to sleep in somewhere with an exciting range of insect life in my cell-like room, I expect the price to be right.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Sri Lanka is India lite, middle class India, what India would be like if it didnÕt have 600m people living on the breadline. It is, in a weird, third world sort of way, rather middle class. Indeed, it is an interesting Sri Lanka fact that, in the mid 1960s, SL had roughly the same standard of living as Singapore. ThatÕs what forty years of vaguely socialist government and civil war does for you.
I pitched up at the airport and got a cab straight to Kandy in the hills, stopping en route for breakfast which was pretty good. It helps if you like curry: I enjoyed dahl, three kinds of curry and sambol. Sri Lankan food is an order of magnitude hotter than Indian and chilli and coffee are a bad combination. En route the driver told me many interesting facts, although the one that sticks in my mind is that using your mobile phone while driving and drunk driving attract the same fine, 5000R or about #30.
Built around a lake, Kandy is a strange place. ItÕs attractive and has a nice lake and temple. It also has an oddly metropolitan feel with a population about 120,000; in fact if anything itÕs a bit too busy for a hill town. ItÕs also not especially high, so too hot. Still, I found a nice enough guesthouse and had a lunch not dissimilar to breakfast.
Later on, I wandered into town, by now brutally jet lagged. Although pleasant in the day, by night Kandy takes on a slightly less pleasant air. I sat down for some tea to revive my jet lag and, shortly, a guy called Ravi sat next to me. Did I mind? No. We chatted and he seemed OK in a persistent slightly irritating way. I pumped him for information and, as the time came for a natural parting of the ways, he insisted we went for a beer. OK, I said, mainly because I was sop jet lagged that yes was easier than no.
So we went to a bar. I refused his choice on the grounds that I was quite sure he was a spiv. But, well you know, you have to give people the benefit of the doubtÉwell, actually you donÕt and you shouldnÕt. Ravi chose 8% beer, I went for 4 and we continued to chat. As he got drunker, he became cruder and started telling me about Ôtight thai p-ssyÕ and so on. Two of his friends joined us; right my friend, I thought, this is where you walk out without your wallet.
RaviÕs friends were even worse than he was, but I kept my wits about me. He started exhorting me to have a bottle of arak with him and his friends. No, I was too tired. DonÕt you trust us. I went for the non-answer: I donÕt know you. Ravi said heÕd get the bill (for me); I said it was fine. Not that it mattered: the waiter was in cahoots with him and all the beers were marked up by about 300%. Oh, and there was a bottle of arak on the bill. I couldnÕt be bothered to argue about the beers, but I had the waiter take the arak off which he did in that amused, of fancy that, sir, youÕve caught me ripping you off sort of way.
Ravi then appeared. Please by some arak for me and my friends. I explained I had, by my reckoning, already scored him six beers. No, he said, that is the price, donÕt you trust me. No, I said, I donÕt trust you. Oh just give me the money for the arak. No. He grabbed my shoulder, not violently, just to try and stop me from going.
ItÕs quite a nice thing when you get to the stage where you really feel as if you have earned the right to tell someone to fÑk off. And it really is an international piece of language. He did.
The next morning I got the train up to Nuwara Eilya, a proper hill station very high in the centre of central Sri LankaÕs appreciable mountains. There was the usual bureaucracy: you cannot buy a first class ticket because they are all booked. Can I buy a second class ticket? Not until 8. And you have to use the other line.
Still, it is one of the worldÕs great train journeys (if not one of its great trains). You clank across an incredible landscape, past hills, waterfalls and mountains. My journey was enlivened by the people in my carriage. I was next to a nice couple from Colombo who were doing what Sri Lankans like to do on holiday which is go somewhere cold. There were also a pair of English girls sitting underneath a sign saying ÔFor ClergyÕ. They were nice, but dressed identically Ð what makes you wake in the morning and think ÔIÕll wear exactly what sheÕs wearing.Õ There was a sulky girl next to me and a German woman who was convinced the train was filthy and was very uncomfortable. Germans are a rum lot, you see them everywhere, in real third world places and yet they love hygiene and order. There is something Calvinist in the national character; who else would go on holiday to suffer?
Most Hill stations have a British theme and look like Surrey villages that have found themselves on the wrong continent. Not Nuwara Eilya: instead of being Ersatz English, it is sham Scottish. To be fair, the Scots did a pretty good job of approximating home. There are pine trees everywhere; Scottish houses sit all over the place (although mercifully no tenenement blocks.Õ Oh and it p-sses with rain about half the time. On the afternoon I arrived, the place looked very charicature of Glen Misery on an October afternoon. It required no effort whatsoever to imagine a Scottish tea planter sitting by his fire, murmuring contentedly, ÔOch, just like home.Õ
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I pitched up at the airport and got a cab straight to Kandy in the hills, stopping en route for breakfast which was pretty good. It helps if you like curry: I enjoyed dahl, three kinds of curry and sambol. Sri Lankan food is an order of magnitude hotter than Indian and chilli and coffee are a bad combination. En route the driver told me many interesting facts, although the one that sticks in my mind is that using your mobile phone while driving and drunk driving attract the same fine, 5000R or about #30.
Built around a lake, Kandy is a strange place. ItÕs attractive and has a nice lake and temple. It also has an oddly metropolitan feel with a population about 120,000; in fact if anything itÕs a bit too busy for a hill town. ItÕs also not especially high, so too hot. Still, I found a nice enough guesthouse and had a lunch not dissimilar to breakfast.
Later on, I wandered into town, by now brutally jet lagged. Although pleasant in the day, by night Kandy takes on a slightly less pleasant air. I sat down for some tea to revive my jet lag and, shortly, a guy called Ravi sat next to me. Did I mind? No. We chatted and he seemed OK in a persistent slightly irritating way. I pumped him for information and, as the time came for a natural parting of the ways, he insisted we went for a beer. OK, I said, mainly because I was sop jet lagged that yes was easier than no.
So we went to a bar. I refused his choice on the grounds that I was quite sure he was a spiv. But, well you know, you have to give people the benefit of the doubtÉwell, actually you donÕt and you shouldnÕt. Ravi chose 8% beer, I went for 4 and we continued to chat. As he got drunker, he became cruder and started telling me about Ôtight thai p-ssyÕ and so on. Two of his friends joined us; right my friend, I thought, this is where you walk out without your wallet.
RaviÕs friends were even worse than he was, but I kept my wits about me. He started exhorting me to have a bottle of arak with him and his friends. No, I was too tired. DonÕt you trust us. I went for the non-answer: I donÕt know you. Ravi said heÕd get the bill (for me); I said it was fine. Not that it mattered: the waiter was in cahoots with him and all the beers were marked up by about 300%. Oh, and there was a bottle of arak on the bill. I couldnÕt be bothered to argue about the beers, but I had the waiter take the arak off which he did in that amused, of fancy that, sir, youÕve caught me ripping you off sort of way.
Ravi then appeared. Please by some arak for me and my friends. I explained I had, by my reckoning, already scored him six beers. No, he said, that is the price, donÕt you trust me. No, I said, I donÕt trust you. Oh just give me the money for the arak. No. He grabbed my shoulder, not violently, just to try and stop me from going.
ItÕs quite a nice thing when you get to the stage where you really feel as if you have earned the right to tell someone to fÑk off. And it really is an international piece of language. He did.
The next morning I got the train up to Nuwara Eilya, a proper hill station very high in the centre of central Sri LankaÕs appreciable mountains. There was the usual bureaucracy: you cannot buy a first class ticket because they are all booked. Can I buy a second class ticket? Not until 8. And you have to use the other line.
Still, it is one of the worldÕs great train journeys (if not one of its great trains). You clank across an incredible landscape, past hills, waterfalls and mountains. My journey was enlivened by the people in my carriage. I was next to a nice couple from Colombo who were doing what Sri Lankans like to do on holiday which is go somewhere cold. There were also a pair of English girls sitting underneath a sign saying ÔFor ClergyÕ. They were nice, but dressed identically Ð what makes you wake in the morning and think ÔIÕll wear exactly what sheÕs wearing.Õ There was a sulky girl next to me and a German woman who was convinced the train was filthy and was very uncomfortable. Germans are a rum lot, you see them everywhere, in real third world places and yet they love hygiene and order. There is something Calvinist in the national character; who else would go on holiday to suffer?
Most Hill stations have a British theme and look like Surrey villages that have found themselves on the wrong continent. Not Nuwara Eilya: instead of being Ersatz English, it is sham Scottish. To be fair, the Scots did a pretty good job of approximating home. There are pine trees everywhere; Scottish houses sit all over the place (although mercifully no tenenement blocks.Õ Oh and it p-sses with rain about half the time. On the afternoon I arrived, the place looked very charicature of Glen Misery on an October afternoon. It required no effort whatsoever to imagine a Scottish tea planter sitting by his fire, murmuring contentedly, ÔOch, just like home.Õ
Monday, July 19, 2004
Fat Boys and Food
The next day, I went up into the hills with Gerald to take his Great Dane for a walk. It was a pleasant enough hike Ð and the Great Dane lolloped amiably along with us. What could be more English? Well OK, it was about 35 degrees and like a steam bath, but there was, nonetheless, a sort of Britishness to it. But the walk did reaffirm my feeling that living all by yourself on an island turns you kind of weird. Plus, Gerald drew so many unfavourable comparisons with the UK that I had to wonder who he was trying to convince that life in the Philippines was better, me or him. Then every now and then, he would tell me how dreadful the Philippines are. This time, round I think he was dwelling on the education system and the diet. I have no idea about the former, but he certainly has a point about the latter.
After the walk, we met GeraldÕs nephew, living proof of both the education system and the foodÕs failings. He was over at GeraldÕs to be taught some remedial maths. Oh, and he was 5Õ4Ó and weighed over 250 lbs, not far off twice my weight. He would be able to get into college if he could pass his maths and prove he didnÕt have a heart condition on lard-related diabetes. He was wearing a T-shirt bigging up Jesus.
Over lunch, Gerald offered to help me tour the island the following day, but I made some rather lame excuse. He was a nice enough guy, but conversation was becoming a bit of a one way thing and I was feeling a little smothered. So I made some rather lame excuse and headed back to my resort with its single sex tourist and his astonishing handlebar moustache.
That evening, I ate up in the capital, Boca, one of the most spectacularly poor meals IÕve ever eaten. It was like English service station food from the 1970s, a pizza which was effectively a cracker with a thin smear of ketchup on it and topped with cubist veg and a desultory sprinkling of cheese. It was the kind of thing food writers would probably describe as inedible, but of course it was no such thing. Spending any length of time in the Philippines quickly makes you realise that there are few things that you actually cannot eat, just plenty of very bland food. Indeed, the only memorable thing about the meal was that it was served by an unsmiling transsexual. You didnÕt get many of them at English service stations in the 1970s.
Tiger TV
Later that night, I shared some beers with the sex tourist, his sex tour guide, the hotel owner and the cook while we watched a documentary about people who keep tigers. This is a subject that bears some scrutiny. For who among us has not nursed strange fantasies about having a pet tiger? And then watched these fantasies evaporate the second they start going out with girls. But for some people Ð most of them American, apparently Ð these dreams never go away. And, eventually they own their own tiger.
IÕm not quite sure what the lesson from all this is. Perhaps itÕs that America is the land where dreams come true. A more accurate reading of this would be that America is also the land where complete cretins can see their dreams come true. Certainly watching people proudly show off the scar, where Rambo tore out their spleen while playing would suggest that some dreams are better off fulfilled. At the end of the docu, I opined that those who owned tigers deserved to get eaten, but the sex tourist gave a nonchalant shrug of his handlebar. I think he was considering scoring himself a tiger.
The next day, I decided to do the grand tour of Marinduque, starting with the sulphur springs which, the night before, had been roundly dissed by Herr Handlebar. And while it is true that they werenÕt exactly Bath Spa, they were authentically fartily sulphurous and clearly good for your skin as they made you smell like an off egg for days.
From there, I headed across a range of mountains, where, apparently the PLA are active. This was done in on a tricycle, which really didnÕt enjoy the experience much. We bounced over a felty range, about the height of the Scottish highlands and down into a nothingy little town with a nice beach. But that was it, so I headed on, having decided that the local restaurants were too revolting for even my stomach. Next up was Santa Cruz, the islandÕs second town. There I scored a borderline edible meal for 57 pence. Before picking up another Jeepeney to take me to the islandÕs famous caves.
Snakes, Bats and Golden Showers
I was dropped off in the middle of nowhere and told to head towards a biggish shack. The place had a kind of tropical Steven king vibe about it, but when I got there a man was cooking scrambled eggs, which, in a novel twist, he was scrambling with pig fat. I declined his eggy offer. Was I here to see the caves he asked? Yes I said. Another man appeared: he would be my guide. That was that.
We set off through steamy jungle, first to the bones cave. This was no great shakes. It wasÉduhÉa cave full of human bones, most in an advanced state of decay. I have to say the only thing that impressed me was that one of the guideÕs dogs had a gnaw on a human femur. Sort of gross, but the bone was a couple of centuries old and, really, if youÕve seen a dog eat a human foot (see early India entries) itÕs really no big deal.
Next up was the python cave. Now, this was a bit more like it. After descending through down a load of slippery, muddy rocks into a dank, jungly hole, a pretty descent that had me on my arse several times, I landed on a dry sandy floor. The cave was pretty much a standard issue cavern, with the odd bat flying out. And then I saw them. There were half a dozen alcoves in the cave wall and each held a fat, supine python. Indeed to enter the cave, you had to make sure the alpha python who occupied the largest inclusion, over the entrance was asleep. Inside was more of the same, but the best thing was when we exited. By then the python had woken, roused, perhaps by the stream of bats which were now exiting the cave. Then it drooped down and casually, lazily plucked a bat out of the air. Just like that.
The python was a pretty hard act to follow and although the final cave, the bat cave didnÕt surpass it, it equalled it in a curiously memorable kind of way. Bats may be thought of as kind of cute in certain circles, evil and spooky in others, and even rather tasty (see Indonesia). But I just think of them as smelly. If youÕve ever gone into a bat cave, youÕll notice that the whole place absolutely honks of bat poo-poo, or, more properly guano. But in fact, guano is not the problemÉ
ÔMake sure you have a hat onÕ said my guide as we entered the cave. I didnÕt. Why the hell would I want to wear a hat in a cave. As I entered, I marvelled at what was undeniably a marvellous sight. Within the bat cave was a flock or swarm or whatever it is bats come in, swirling around the ceiling. There were probably a couple of thousand, all making squeaky little bat shrieks. And then I got the answer to my question. I could feel dozens of small drops of moisture on my face and head. What could it be? Condensation from the cave roof. Then I caught a whiff of it Ð curiouslyÉammoniated. Oh dear, one of lifeÕs lessons. You should always wear a hat in a bat cave because otherwise youÕll receive a golden shower of epic proportions.
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The next day, I went up into the hills with Gerald to take his Great Dane for a walk. It was a pleasant enough hike Ð and the Great Dane lolloped amiably along with us. What could be more English? Well OK, it was about 35 degrees and like a steam bath, but there was, nonetheless, a sort of Britishness to it. But the walk did reaffirm my feeling that living all by yourself on an island turns you kind of weird. Plus, Gerald drew so many unfavourable comparisons with the UK that I had to wonder who he was trying to convince that life in the Philippines was better, me or him. Then every now and then, he would tell me how dreadful the Philippines are. This time, round I think he was dwelling on the education system and the diet. I have no idea about the former, but he certainly has a point about the latter.
After the walk, we met GeraldÕs nephew, living proof of both the education system and the foodÕs failings. He was over at GeraldÕs to be taught some remedial maths. Oh, and he was 5Õ4Ó and weighed over 250 lbs, not far off twice my weight. He would be able to get into college if he could pass his maths and prove he didnÕt have a heart condition on lard-related diabetes. He was wearing a T-shirt bigging up Jesus.
Over lunch, Gerald offered to help me tour the island the following day, but I made some rather lame excuse. He was a nice enough guy, but conversation was becoming a bit of a one way thing and I was feeling a little smothered. So I made some rather lame excuse and headed back to my resort with its single sex tourist and his astonishing handlebar moustache.
That evening, I ate up in the capital, Boca, one of the most spectacularly poor meals IÕve ever eaten. It was like English service station food from the 1970s, a pizza which was effectively a cracker with a thin smear of ketchup on it and topped with cubist veg and a desultory sprinkling of cheese. It was the kind of thing food writers would probably describe as inedible, but of course it was no such thing. Spending any length of time in the Philippines quickly makes you realise that there are few things that you actually cannot eat, just plenty of very bland food. Indeed, the only memorable thing about the meal was that it was served by an unsmiling transsexual. You didnÕt get many of them at English service stations in the 1970s.
Tiger TV
Later that night, I shared some beers with the sex tourist, his sex tour guide, the hotel owner and the cook while we watched a documentary about people who keep tigers. This is a subject that bears some scrutiny. For who among us has not nursed strange fantasies about having a pet tiger? And then watched these fantasies evaporate the second they start going out with girls. But for some people Ð most of them American, apparently Ð these dreams never go away. And, eventually they own their own tiger.
IÕm not quite sure what the lesson from all this is. Perhaps itÕs that America is the land where dreams come true. A more accurate reading of this would be that America is also the land where complete cretins can see their dreams come true. Certainly watching people proudly show off the scar, where Rambo tore out their spleen while playing would suggest that some dreams are better off fulfilled. At the end of the docu, I opined that those who owned tigers deserved to get eaten, but the sex tourist gave a nonchalant shrug of his handlebar. I think he was considering scoring himself a tiger.
The next day, I decided to do the grand tour of Marinduque, starting with the sulphur springs which, the night before, had been roundly dissed by Herr Handlebar. And while it is true that they werenÕt exactly Bath Spa, they were authentically fartily sulphurous and clearly good for your skin as they made you smell like an off egg for days.
From there, I headed across a range of mountains, where, apparently the PLA are active. This was done in on a tricycle, which really didnÕt enjoy the experience much. We bounced over a felty range, about the height of the Scottish highlands and down into a nothingy little town with a nice beach. But that was it, so I headed on, having decided that the local restaurants were too revolting for even my stomach. Next up was Santa Cruz, the islandÕs second town. There I scored a borderline edible meal for 57 pence. Before picking up another Jeepeney to take me to the islandÕs famous caves.
Snakes, Bats and Golden Showers
I was dropped off in the middle of nowhere and told to head towards a biggish shack. The place had a kind of tropical Steven king vibe about it, but when I got there a man was cooking scrambled eggs, which, in a novel twist, he was scrambling with pig fat. I declined his eggy offer. Was I here to see the caves he asked? Yes I said. Another man appeared: he would be my guide. That was that.
We set off through steamy jungle, first to the bones cave. This was no great shakes. It wasÉduhÉa cave full of human bones, most in an advanced state of decay. I have to say the only thing that impressed me was that one of the guideÕs dogs had a gnaw on a human femur. Sort of gross, but the bone was a couple of centuries old and, really, if youÕve seen a dog eat a human foot (see early India entries) itÕs really no big deal.
Next up was the python cave. Now, this was a bit more like it. After descending through down a load of slippery, muddy rocks into a dank, jungly hole, a pretty descent that had me on my arse several times, I landed on a dry sandy floor. The cave was pretty much a standard issue cavern, with the odd bat flying out. And then I saw them. There were half a dozen alcoves in the cave wall and each held a fat, supine python. Indeed to enter the cave, you had to make sure the alpha python who occupied the largest inclusion, over the entrance was asleep. Inside was more of the same, but the best thing was when we exited. By then the python had woken, roused, perhaps by the stream of bats which were now exiting the cave. Then it drooped down and casually, lazily plucked a bat out of the air. Just like that.
The python was a pretty hard act to follow and although the final cave, the bat cave didnÕt surpass it, it equalled it in a curiously memorable kind of way. Bats may be thought of as kind of cute in certain circles, evil and spooky in others, and even rather tasty (see Indonesia). But I just think of them as smelly. If youÕve ever gone into a bat cave, youÕll notice that the whole place absolutely honks of bat poo-poo, or, more properly guano. But in fact, guano is not the problemÉ
ÔMake sure you have a hat onÕ said my guide as we entered the cave. I didnÕt. Why the hell would I want to wear a hat in a cave. As I entered, I marvelled at what was undeniably a marvellous sight. Within the bat cave was a flock or swarm or whatever it is bats come in, swirling around the ceiling. There were probably a couple of thousand, all making squeaky little bat shrieks. And then I got the answer to my question. I could feel dozens of small drops of moisture on my face and head. What could it be? Condensation from the cave roof. Then I caught a whiff of it Ð curiouslyÉammoniated. Oh dear, one of lifeÕs lessons. You should always wear a hat in a bat cave because otherwise youÕll receive a golden shower of epic proportions.
Monday, June 21, 2004
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.
0 comments
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.
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.
3 comments
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.
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Slow Coach
With no volcano to climb and with the beauty contest but a lingering memory, there wasn't much to do in Legazpi. So I left in the most leisurely fashion possible. That is, I decided to get the train. Apart from Manila's metros, the Philippines has exactly one train line, a single narrow gauge track which extends about 400km south from Manila to Legaspi (you can spell it both ways). To say that this railway is slow is an understatement: every day one train runs each way sometimes they reach the terrifying speed of 30 kilometres per hour.
I took the train to the next big town up the line, Naga. My carriage was about an eighth full and took about four hours, twice what a bus would. The only compelling reason to take it, as the woman opposite me said, is 'to count the coconut palms.' For some reason, people tend to get all misty eyed about rail and kick up an awful fuss when governments close lines, but the only people I can see mourning this one are a few dedicated rail nuts who also like to count palms. It will doubtless soon be a piece of history - and the sooner the better.
I'd gone to Naga because it had a volcano which, unlike Mayon (see last post) was in a state of quiescence and therefore climbable. But first I had to find a hotel. Actually the room I found - and there were not many - was recommended to me by the guide I was going to take up a volcano. It cost slightly less than two pounds and, I suppose represented some sort of value for money. But if I could have found somewhere that cost ten or even 20 times as much, believe me, I would have stayed there. The only thing my hotel had going for it was a front desk that was unhelpful to the point of being faintly amusing. Indeed, while I climbed the volcano, the woman there helpfully sent my laundry on a 48-hour grand tour of the Bicol peninsula. (I would later locate my smalls by dialing a number on a free biro that I'd been given.)
Junglists
The next day, rather before the crack of dawn, my guide Toping arrived at my jail of a hotel. We set out in a Jeepney and, presently we arrived at a village in the middle of nowhere, hard by a rather nice jungle-clad volcano, Mt Isarog. Most of the mountains here create their own weather systems; with so much moisture in the air anything about 1200 wears a nice little sombrero of cloud from about 9am onwards. For the casual hiker this means that you will trek for three hours in blistering heat, then two in a climate rather like a cold rainy English April.
Anyhow, volcano climbing in the Philippines is a bit like a five-hour work in a Turkish bath full of saw grass and leeches. Every couple of years I feel obliged to go into the jungle and remind myself that, much as I approve of conserved tropical forests in principle, in practice, I don't really want to play. It really makes you appreciate the fortitude (or cussed stupidity) of the Japanese soldiers here, who, not realizing World War II was over, hid out in Philippine jungles until most of them were logged in the 1980s (largely to satisfy the Japanese appetite for hardwood).
Despite being something of an SAS survival course, at the top it was rather pleasant. At a mere 20-25C (rather than the 35C at the bottom), it was cool, limpid and very wet. Indeed, the air was so damp that moss and plants grew everywhere - on tree trunks, on vines and so on - making the area look a bit like something out of Lord of the Rings. I fancied that if I stayed up there for long, they'd probably start taking roots in my damp crevices. Toping and I shot the soggy breeze for a while up there. I liked him. He was funny, his English was pretty good, he wasn't religious and he was 26 and had no kids. His first love appeared to be his mobile phone and he sent upwards of 100 texts per day. The Philippines needs a lot more people like him.
Getting down was about as much fun as getting up. The mountain was so wet and steep it was a bit like a mudslide except that these are not normally full of boulders the size of dogs. Having got to the top scratched to hell, I got to the bottom also bruised to hell, from falling over on average once every hundred vertical metres. Anyone who thinks that jungles are great obviously doesn't spend much time in then. Just to keep things interesting we then went swimming in the sea, where I added jellyfish stings to my woes. Despite this, I actually enjoyed myself - it's true I really did. It did occur to me on the way back that perhaps I like suffering and there's something a bit weird about me.
Eating Out (of necessity)
Back in Naga and smelling like a rugby player's jockstrap, I asked Toping where he'd recommend I eat. He said that a joint called Chilli Peppers was the best for the local cuisine - which is legendary for its fieriness. Toping was right -Chilli Peppers was indeed the best local restaurant. But this is a bit like saying someone is the best high-jumping midget.
I have now eaten Filippino grub everywhere from high end restaurants to village huts. I have snacked at street stalls, fed at fast food joints and been to the best of local restaurants; I have explored almost every culinary dead-end this country has to offer. It is all crap. My guidebook says that the Philippines has "a rich and varied cuisine." Which cretin wrote this crap? Someone who has lived on nothing but Mother's Pride and cherryade all their lives? A typical menu involves a lot of deep fried stuff, a lot of bits of pig, few of them very nice and a few long-stewed, short flavoured veggie dishes. Even the fish is nearly all deep fried in palm oil, thus obviating any taste and nutritional value it might have. There is also a dark, almost black dish which I am too gutless to try. Perhaps I lack the guts because the dish almost certainly doesn't doesn't.
Anyway Toping was right. At Chilli's I scored a plate of fish that had been cooked in an tolerable semi-sweet sauce, and with served rice, some of that frozen dolly mixture veg and, weirdly, a single scoop of instant mashed potato. It was one of the better dishes I've eaten. I remember a while back reading a Paul Theroux book where he opined that he really couldn't care less about foreign food. At the time I'd thought this rather odd, even a bit Philistine. But he was travelling in sub-saharan Africa which is not noted for its cusisine either. Now I totally understand - eating has actually become a chore.
Any port in a storm
After Naga, I got a sweaty bus through lush and steamy mountains for six hours and was eventually dumped in Lucena, a port city from which I hoped to get the ferry to the island of Marinduque. Time was tight, the last boat was leaving soon and the owner of a Jeepney (a sort of bus-cum jeep, which seats around twenty) said that I wouldn't make it - unless I hired his entire bus. So I did: my own bus for a half-hour journey for two quid. Transport in this country is, for some reason, far cheaper than anything else. And, by local standards, this man was taking me for a ride.
Just as we were about to pull out a woman jumped on board. She said needed do go to the port too: could she come along? Of course, I replied. We chatted a bit, her English was reasonable; she was called 'Baby' (not an uncommon name) and she was plump with a lot of missing teeth. She also had a letter from a religious organization stating that transport companies should allow her to travel for free as she had some sort of problem, though it didn't specify what it was. I was about to find out.
The jeepney ride was too noisy to hear that much of what she was saying, although I did notice that she laughed a lot. As we got off at a dusty bustling port, she asked me where I was going. 'Marinduque,' I replied. 'Me too,' she said. This was the first point at which I thought 'Uh-oh...' But then I went to buy my ticket thinking that her curious letter would never get her on.
Well, it did. Just as I was spreading and relaxing out for the four hour journey I heard 'Hello Rhyner!!! I'm coming with you.' At this point I twigged that she was perhaps a little mad. Her fair command of English and occasionally perceptive questions had made me think that she was weird, though not totally barking. But I soon realised it's entirely possible to be crazy and bi-lingual. Running around the boat pretending to be an airplane is a kind of universal shorthand for being crackers if you're over ten years old.
I spent the rest of wearily listening to a stream of constant questions, some lucid, some bonkers, letting her read my copy of Vanity Fair, then use it as a hat, a mask, a bird, etc... A local army guy asked me several hundred times where I found my girlfriend (each time wetting himself laughing; he was as bad as she was) then, rather memorably she asked me what the freckles on my arm were before trying to pick them off one by one. There is no polite way of telling someone to 'leave my f--king pigment alone.' As the boat moored in Marinduque's harbour she stood on the bench and loudly told anyone who'd listen 'We're going to Boac [the island's capital] together.'
As you can imagine, by this stage, any charitable thoughts I might have had were long gone - I couldn't care less in the community. Rather I was scooping hard for the boat's exits and even considering swimming for it. The ferry lowered its off- ramp and I was poised, coiled like a sprinter on his starting blocks. I gained the dock and then... 'Hello Rhyner...' Oh Christ, I thought, she's never going to go... And then she said 'I am going this way now. Bye bye.' With that she zoomed off, this time more like a helicopter, into the crowd that had gathered to meet the boat and was gone. I guess that's the good thing about nutters: you never know what they're going to do next.
3 comments
With no volcano to climb and with the beauty contest but a lingering memory, there wasn't much to do in Legazpi. So I left in the most leisurely fashion possible. That is, I decided to get the train. Apart from Manila's metros, the Philippines has exactly one train line, a single narrow gauge track which extends about 400km south from Manila to Legaspi (you can spell it both ways). To say that this railway is slow is an understatement: every day one train runs each way sometimes they reach the terrifying speed of 30 kilometres per hour.
I took the train to the next big town up the line, Naga. My carriage was about an eighth full and took about four hours, twice what a bus would. The only compelling reason to take it, as the woman opposite me said, is 'to count the coconut palms.' For some reason, people tend to get all misty eyed about rail and kick up an awful fuss when governments close lines, but the only people I can see mourning this one are a few dedicated rail nuts who also like to count palms. It will doubtless soon be a piece of history - and the sooner the better.
I'd gone to Naga because it had a volcano which, unlike Mayon (see last post) was in a state of quiescence and therefore climbable. But first I had to find a hotel. Actually the room I found - and there were not many - was recommended to me by the guide I was going to take up a volcano. It cost slightly less than two pounds and, I suppose represented some sort of value for money. But if I could have found somewhere that cost ten or even 20 times as much, believe me, I would have stayed there. The only thing my hotel had going for it was a front desk that was unhelpful to the point of being faintly amusing. Indeed, while I climbed the volcano, the woman there helpfully sent my laundry on a 48-hour grand tour of the Bicol peninsula. (I would later locate my smalls by dialing a number on a free biro that I'd been given.)
Junglists
The next day, rather before the crack of dawn, my guide Toping arrived at my jail of a hotel. We set out in a Jeepney and, presently we arrived at a village in the middle of nowhere, hard by a rather nice jungle-clad volcano, Mt Isarog. Most of the mountains here create their own weather systems; with so much moisture in the air anything about 1200 wears a nice little sombrero of cloud from about 9am onwards. For the casual hiker this means that you will trek for three hours in blistering heat, then two in a climate rather like a cold rainy English April.
Anyhow, volcano climbing in the Philippines is a bit like a five-hour work in a Turkish bath full of saw grass and leeches. Every couple of years I feel obliged to go into the jungle and remind myself that, much as I approve of conserved tropical forests in principle, in practice, I don't really want to play. It really makes you appreciate the fortitude (or cussed stupidity) of the Japanese soldiers here, who, not realizing World War II was over, hid out in Philippine jungles until most of them were logged in the 1980s (largely to satisfy the Japanese appetite for hardwood).
Despite being something of an SAS survival course, at the top it was rather pleasant. At a mere 20-25C (rather than the 35C at the bottom), it was cool, limpid and very wet. Indeed, the air was so damp that moss and plants grew everywhere - on tree trunks, on vines and so on - making the area look a bit like something out of Lord of the Rings. I fancied that if I stayed up there for long, they'd probably start taking roots in my damp crevices. Toping and I shot the soggy breeze for a while up there. I liked him. He was funny, his English was pretty good, he wasn't religious and he was 26 and had no kids. His first love appeared to be his mobile phone and he sent upwards of 100 texts per day. The Philippines needs a lot more people like him.
Getting down was about as much fun as getting up. The mountain was so wet and steep it was a bit like a mudslide except that these are not normally full of boulders the size of dogs. Having got to the top scratched to hell, I got to the bottom also bruised to hell, from falling over on average once every hundred vertical metres. Anyone who thinks that jungles are great obviously doesn't spend much time in then. Just to keep things interesting we then went swimming in the sea, where I added jellyfish stings to my woes. Despite this, I actually enjoyed myself - it's true I really did. It did occur to me on the way back that perhaps I like suffering and there's something a bit weird about me.
Eating Out (of necessity)
Back in Naga and smelling like a rugby player's jockstrap, I asked Toping where he'd recommend I eat. He said that a joint called Chilli Peppers was the best for the local cuisine - which is legendary for its fieriness. Toping was right -Chilli Peppers was indeed the best local restaurant. But this is a bit like saying someone is the best high-jumping midget.
I have now eaten Filippino grub everywhere from high end restaurants to village huts. I have snacked at street stalls, fed at fast food joints and been to the best of local restaurants; I have explored almost every culinary dead-end this country has to offer. It is all crap. My guidebook says that the Philippines has "a rich and varied cuisine." Which cretin wrote this crap? Someone who has lived on nothing but Mother's Pride and cherryade all their lives? A typical menu involves a lot of deep fried stuff, a lot of bits of pig, few of them very nice and a few long-stewed, short flavoured veggie dishes. Even the fish is nearly all deep fried in palm oil, thus obviating any taste and nutritional value it might have. There is also a dark, almost black dish which I am too gutless to try. Perhaps I lack the guts because the dish almost certainly doesn't doesn't.
Anyway Toping was right. At Chilli's I scored a plate of fish that had been cooked in an tolerable semi-sweet sauce, and with served rice, some of that frozen dolly mixture veg and, weirdly, a single scoop of instant mashed potato. It was one of the better dishes I've eaten. I remember a while back reading a Paul Theroux book where he opined that he really couldn't care less about foreign food. At the time I'd thought this rather odd, even a bit Philistine. But he was travelling in sub-saharan Africa which is not noted for its cusisine either. Now I totally understand - eating has actually become a chore.
Any port in a storm
After Naga, I got a sweaty bus through lush and steamy mountains for six hours and was eventually dumped in Lucena, a port city from which I hoped to get the ferry to the island of Marinduque. Time was tight, the last boat was leaving soon and the owner of a Jeepney (a sort of bus-cum jeep, which seats around twenty) said that I wouldn't make it - unless I hired his entire bus. So I did: my own bus for a half-hour journey for two quid. Transport in this country is, for some reason, far cheaper than anything else. And, by local standards, this man was taking me for a ride.
Just as we were about to pull out a woman jumped on board. She said needed do go to the port too: could she come along? Of course, I replied. We chatted a bit, her English was reasonable; she was called 'Baby' (not an uncommon name) and she was plump with a lot of missing teeth. She also had a letter from a religious organization stating that transport companies should allow her to travel for free as she had some sort of problem, though it didn't specify what it was. I was about to find out.
The jeepney ride was too noisy to hear that much of what she was saying, although I did notice that she laughed a lot. As we got off at a dusty bustling port, she asked me where I was going. 'Marinduque,' I replied. 'Me too,' she said. This was the first point at which I thought 'Uh-oh...' But then I went to buy my ticket thinking that her curious letter would never get her on.
Well, it did. Just as I was spreading and relaxing out for the four hour journey I heard 'Hello Rhyner!!! I'm coming with you.' At this point I twigged that she was perhaps a little mad. Her fair command of English and occasionally perceptive questions had made me think that she was weird, though not totally barking. But I soon realised it's entirely possible to be crazy and bi-lingual. Running around the boat pretending to be an airplane is a kind of universal shorthand for being crackers if you're over ten years old.
I spent the rest of wearily listening to a stream of constant questions, some lucid, some bonkers, letting her read my copy of Vanity Fair, then use it as a hat, a mask, a bird, etc... A local army guy asked me several hundred times where I found my girlfriend (each time wetting himself laughing; he was as bad as she was) then, rather memorably she asked me what the freckles on my arm were before trying to pick them off one by one. There is no polite way of telling someone to 'leave my f--king pigment alone.' As the boat moored in Marinduque's harbour she stood on the bench and loudly told anyone who'd listen 'We're going to Boac [the island's capital] together.'
As you can imagine, by this stage, any charitable thoughts I might have had were long gone - I couldn't care less in the community. Rather I was scooping hard for the boat's exits and even considering swimming for it. The ferry lowered its off- ramp and I was poised, coiled like a sprinter on his starting blocks. I gained the dock and then... 'Hello Rhyner...' Oh Christ, I thought, she's never going to go... And then she said 'I am going this way now. Bye bye.' With that she zoomed off, this time more like a helicopter, into the crowd that had gathered to meet the boat and was gone. I guess that's the good thing about nutters: you never know what they're going to do next.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Volcaned
We bounced into Legaspi's airport cum airstrip and, I immediately thought, well, this is a bit more like it. The sun was shining, it was scorching (at 10am) and the volcano was looking good. The volcano, of course is Mt Mayon, the world's most perfect volcano (tm). In all fairness the WMPV is a pretty arresting sight. At 2500m, it's not especially high as mountains go, but the thing is it rises to this height from sea-level. It is also exactly, geometrically perfect, just as the people promise. So, hats off to Mt Mayon. It's worth a 45 minutes flight just to enjoy its pleasing cone shape.
At the airport a taxi driver tried to charge me twenty times the going rate setting a new record for rip-offs. I probably would have taken him down by half, and congratulated myself on a deal well struck, but a voice behind me said. ÔNo, it should be P40, not P800Õ. This was Hoji, a Japanese Aid worker. So I shared a tri-cab with him and wound up staying at his hotel.
Once ensconced in Jennifer's Garden Apartments I headed downtown. You quickly realize that Legaspi is not much of a tourist destination. 'Are you a missionary?' people kept asking. I had to say that no I wasn't. 'Are you Andre Agassi?' they then asked. I am assuming that this was not a reference to my on court prowess.
Mission Out
Anyway, pretty soon I had bumped into some real life missionaries. I was wondering what missionaries were doing in these parts. After all, if anything the Philippines has a surfeit of religion; it is things pretty much as the Catholic Church would like them. But these guys were Mormons. I guess their pitch was that instead of having eight kids, you could have eight wives.
Anyhow, they seemed nice enough. So I asked them how long they'd been in town. About two years they said. Great I replied, could you tell me where I can find information on climbing the volcano? Nope. OK, could you tell me where a man might get a decent meal in these parts, a good restaurant? Nope. Perhaps a good cup of coffee. Nope...then he blessed me.
What it must be to be so utterly incurious about everything. I guess that's what happens when God has all the answers. Later I bumped into the older of the missionaries again, in a hairdressers where I noted that the Lord had blessed him with a fine rug, like a young David Hasslehoff, in sharp contrast to my rather sparse and Godless covering. After my haircut he blessed me again, rather harder this time.
Misguided
Mountains are not there to be looked at, so I set about finding a guide to climb the comely volcano. He was called Emille and seemed a bang up sort of chap. We struck a price and I gave him a 10% deposit. After sitting out a tropical cloudburst trapped in a Dunkin Doughnuts (retribution for not enjoying my double blessing) I went back to the hotel. There I told the manager I was going to climb Mayon. She gave me a funny look and told me to phone the volcano observatory.
The VO told me I was welcome to climb the WMPV if I signed a waiver saying that my death was my own fault. The WMPV was on alert level 2 he said, adding that alert level 3 meant lava was coming out of the top and level 4 meant that anyone within ten kilometers should run like hell. The WMPV was not to be trifled with, he said, adding that Mayon had killed several hundred people over the last five years, many of them stupid enough to be climbing it during periods of heightened alertÉ
So I phoned up my guide. 'You didn't tell me that the friggin' volcano was limbering up for another explosion,' I said.
'Who told you that,' he asked.
'Professor volcano at the volcano observatory.' I replied.
'What does he know, he is not a climber.'
'No, f-kwit, he is a vulcanologist.'
'But he is not a climber...'
'Yes...'
Eventually I just put the phone down on him, decided to forget about my deposit and looked forward to the day when he tried to climb some lava.
Naturally I was saddened. There's not much to do in Legspi apart from love the volcano and, at the moment it was smoking a little but hardly erupting. I briefly visited the Cassaga ruins, the bell-tower of a Catholic church near the base of Mayon. Here, in 1814, 1200 people sheltered in the church while the volcano did its thing. In this case its thing involved burying the church in lava and killing everyone inside. It is a highly illustrative example of both the destructive power of volcanoes and the practical limitations of religious faith.
Bikini Atoll
Still not all was lost: luckily my hotel was staging the Bikini Babes 2004 competition that very evening! Building on the success of BB 2003 this was aiming to find Legaspi's most beautiful babe in a bikini. Entrants had to be between 16 and 20 and over five foot tall.
Hoji and his friend June (another Japanese guy) were there as was Rane, a local friend of Hoji's. I liked Rane - she was a law student of 24 and a lively conversationalist Ð she certainly had something about her, possibly the fact that she looked about 15. I think Hoji liked Rane too, in a rather more fervent way. Sadly I don't think she liked him back. Hoji was one of those slightly fastidiously plump men that babes (bikini or otherwise) just do not dig. June was funnier and more insouciant; I thought he might have a chance. He wasn't actually interested, which is probably why.
Anyhow, our hosts for the night were the local radio hosts Romeo Tango and Rick Shadow. And our sponsors were Colt 45 beer, Chuck Norris Converse trainers and Levis. Rick and Romeo had quite a rapport going, much of which went like this.
RT: 'Whoaa dude. These girls are so hot, so hot they're sizzling tonight. Me too. I'm so sizzling I need a Colt 45 to cool down... You must be excited too Rick.'
RS: 'Yeah man, so excited I did not sleep for two nights. I spent the whole time drinking Colt 45 beer in my Chuck Norris trainers and Levis jeans.'
And so it went. The lovely ladies paraded and were awarded Chuck Norris trainers for their troubles. There was a beer drinking competition. 'These men are not drunkards, they just love Colt 45 every day.' So much in fact that the winner later left his Colt 45 all over the hotel restrooms.
Sing along a ding dong
The Christina Viva, who had been chain smoking at the judges table got up to sing. Christina was one of the Viva girls a sort of Philippino sub Spice Girls act. In her favour she was a lot better looking than any of the spices. Though, in her disfavour, her singing was no better as was evidenced by her attempt to sing a Dido song without the aid of backing music.
Then Christina asked for volunteers from the audience. Uh-oh, obvious foreigner, I thought, trying to blend into a potted palm. Hoji was picked. He ran and hid, the coward. June was picked. He rose to the challenge. It really was only a matter of time. ChristinaÕs pretty eye landed on me and I cast my lot with June.
Christina explained that we were to dance with her, while she sung a song about groping. We had to do a routine which involved miming booby gropes, butt pats and pelvic thrusting. Well, I can't dance and moreover, I had never seen Christina's song before. I did my best; I fear it was not good enough. Still, June and Christina did pretty well. I provided a sort of comedy third man. It was a new high water mark in public humiliation.
Judgment day
Shaming over, I rejoined the audience to smirks and sniggers for the final judging, courtesy of Colt, Chuck Norris and Levis. 'Well Rick I think we can agree that all the girls are beautiful' 'Yes Romeo, I would have sizzling erection in my Levis if only I hadn't drunk so much Colt 45.'
After much agonizing (and the mysterious disappearance of the one plump entrant) the results were announced. Third was number 1, a lovely girl, but only 16, making her, pleasingly, barely legal bikini babe. Second was the averagely pretty number 12. The winner was number six my personal favorite who wanted to be an airhostess. She made a short, but touching speech about how the world would be a better place if we all drank more Colt45 and wore Chuck Norris Trainers.
We congratulated the winner, who once off the stage looked like adolescent she still was, then Hoji, June and I hung with Christina for a while. She was an odd mixture of pop-star player and small town girl, done up in that Christina/Britney/hooker look. I had no doubt she'd be absolutely awful in a year or two, but she was quite sweet right now - and she chain-smoked so prettily. Needless to say such a stellar gathering attracted the local press and Hoji, June, Christina, number 6 Rick Romeo and I will doubtless be gracing the front of the Legazpi Gazette next week or who knows, even advertising Colt 45 and Chuck Norris shoes.
2 comments
We bounced into Legaspi's airport cum airstrip and, I immediately thought, well, this is a bit more like it. The sun was shining, it was scorching (at 10am) and the volcano was looking good. The volcano, of course is Mt Mayon, the world's most perfect volcano (tm). In all fairness the WMPV is a pretty arresting sight. At 2500m, it's not especially high as mountains go, but the thing is it rises to this height from sea-level. It is also exactly, geometrically perfect, just as the people promise. So, hats off to Mt Mayon. It's worth a 45 minutes flight just to enjoy its pleasing cone shape.
At the airport a taxi driver tried to charge me twenty times the going rate setting a new record for rip-offs. I probably would have taken him down by half, and congratulated myself on a deal well struck, but a voice behind me said. ÔNo, it should be P40, not P800Õ. This was Hoji, a Japanese Aid worker. So I shared a tri-cab with him and wound up staying at his hotel.
Once ensconced in Jennifer's Garden Apartments I headed downtown. You quickly realize that Legaspi is not much of a tourist destination. 'Are you a missionary?' people kept asking. I had to say that no I wasn't. 'Are you Andre Agassi?' they then asked. I am assuming that this was not a reference to my on court prowess.
Mission Out
Anyway, pretty soon I had bumped into some real life missionaries. I was wondering what missionaries were doing in these parts. After all, if anything the Philippines has a surfeit of religion; it is things pretty much as the Catholic Church would like them. But these guys were Mormons. I guess their pitch was that instead of having eight kids, you could have eight wives.
Anyhow, they seemed nice enough. So I asked them how long they'd been in town. About two years they said. Great I replied, could you tell me where I can find information on climbing the volcano? Nope. OK, could you tell me where a man might get a decent meal in these parts, a good restaurant? Nope. Perhaps a good cup of coffee. Nope...then he blessed me.
What it must be to be so utterly incurious about everything. I guess that's what happens when God has all the answers. Later I bumped into the older of the missionaries again, in a hairdressers where I noted that the Lord had blessed him with a fine rug, like a young David Hasslehoff, in sharp contrast to my rather sparse and Godless covering. After my haircut he blessed me again, rather harder this time.
Misguided
Mountains are not there to be looked at, so I set about finding a guide to climb the comely volcano. He was called Emille and seemed a bang up sort of chap. We struck a price and I gave him a 10% deposit. After sitting out a tropical cloudburst trapped in a Dunkin Doughnuts (retribution for not enjoying my double blessing) I went back to the hotel. There I told the manager I was going to climb Mayon. She gave me a funny look and told me to phone the volcano observatory.
The VO told me I was welcome to climb the WMPV if I signed a waiver saying that my death was my own fault. The WMPV was on alert level 2 he said, adding that alert level 3 meant lava was coming out of the top and level 4 meant that anyone within ten kilometers should run like hell. The WMPV was not to be trifled with, he said, adding that Mayon had killed several hundred people over the last five years, many of them stupid enough to be climbing it during periods of heightened alertÉ
So I phoned up my guide. 'You didn't tell me that the friggin' volcano was limbering up for another explosion,' I said.
'Who told you that,' he asked.
'Professor volcano at the volcano observatory.' I replied.
'What does he know, he is not a climber.'
'No, f-kwit, he is a vulcanologist.'
'But he is not a climber...'
'Yes...'
Eventually I just put the phone down on him, decided to forget about my deposit and looked forward to the day when he tried to climb some lava.
Naturally I was saddened. There's not much to do in Legspi apart from love the volcano and, at the moment it was smoking a little but hardly erupting. I briefly visited the Cassaga ruins, the bell-tower of a Catholic church near the base of Mayon. Here, in 1814, 1200 people sheltered in the church while the volcano did its thing. In this case its thing involved burying the church in lava and killing everyone inside. It is a highly illustrative example of both the destructive power of volcanoes and the practical limitations of religious faith.
Bikini Atoll
Still not all was lost: luckily my hotel was staging the Bikini Babes 2004 competition that very evening! Building on the success of BB 2003 this was aiming to find Legaspi's most beautiful babe in a bikini. Entrants had to be between 16 and 20 and over five foot tall.
Hoji and his friend June (another Japanese guy) were there as was Rane, a local friend of Hoji's. I liked Rane - she was a law student of 24 and a lively conversationalist Ð she certainly had something about her, possibly the fact that she looked about 15. I think Hoji liked Rane too, in a rather more fervent way. Sadly I don't think she liked him back. Hoji was one of those slightly fastidiously plump men that babes (bikini or otherwise) just do not dig. June was funnier and more insouciant; I thought he might have a chance. He wasn't actually interested, which is probably why.
Anyhow, our hosts for the night were the local radio hosts Romeo Tango and Rick Shadow. And our sponsors were Colt 45 beer, Chuck Norris Converse trainers and Levis. Rick and Romeo had quite a rapport going, much of which went like this.
RT: 'Whoaa dude. These girls are so hot, so hot they're sizzling tonight. Me too. I'm so sizzling I need a Colt 45 to cool down... You must be excited too Rick.'
RS: 'Yeah man, so excited I did not sleep for two nights. I spent the whole time drinking Colt 45 beer in my Chuck Norris trainers and Levis jeans.'
And so it went. The lovely ladies paraded and were awarded Chuck Norris trainers for their troubles. There was a beer drinking competition. 'These men are not drunkards, they just love Colt 45 every day.' So much in fact that the winner later left his Colt 45 all over the hotel restrooms.
Sing along a ding dong
The Christina Viva, who had been chain smoking at the judges table got up to sing. Christina was one of the Viva girls a sort of Philippino sub Spice Girls act. In her favour she was a lot better looking than any of the spices. Though, in her disfavour, her singing was no better as was evidenced by her attempt to sing a Dido song without the aid of backing music.
Then Christina asked for volunteers from the audience. Uh-oh, obvious foreigner, I thought, trying to blend into a potted palm. Hoji was picked. He ran and hid, the coward. June was picked. He rose to the challenge. It really was only a matter of time. ChristinaÕs pretty eye landed on me and I cast my lot with June.
Christina explained that we were to dance with her, while she sung a song about groping. We had to do a routine which involved miming booby gropes, butt pats and pelvic thrusting. Well, I can't dance and moreover, I had never seen Christina's song before. I did my best; I fear it was not good enough. Still, June and Christina did pretty well. I provided a sort of comedy third man. It was a new high water mark in public humiliation.
Judgment day
Shaming over, I rejoined the audience to smirks and sniggers for the final judging, courtesy of Colt, Chuck Norris and Levis. 'Well Rick I think we can agree that all the girls are beautiful' 'Yes Romeo, I would have sizzling erection in my Levis if only I hadn't drunk so much Colt 45.'
After much agonizing (and the mysterious disappearance of the one plump entrant) the results were announced. Third was number 1, a lovely girl, but only 16, making her, pleasingly, barely legal bikini babe. Second was the averagely pretty number 12. The winner was number six my personal favorite who wanted to be an airhostess. She made a short, but touching speech about how the world would be a better place if we all drank more Colt45 and wore Chuck Norris Trainers.
We congratulated the winner, who once off the stage looked like adolescent she still was, then Hoji, June and I hung with Christina for a while. She was an odd mixture of pop-star player and small town girl, done up in that Christina/Britney/hooker look. I had no doubt she'd be absolutely awful in a year or two, but she was quite sweet right now - and she chain-smoked so prettily. Needless to say such a stellar gathering attracted the local press and Hoji, June, Christina, number 6 Rick Romeo and I will doubtless be gracing the front of the Legazpi Gazette next week or who knows, even advertising Colt 45 and Chuck Norris shoes.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Manila Thriller.
Manila is not much of a tourist destination. I knew this already, but hey, you live in hope. I mean, Phnom Pen is associated mainly with brutal genocide, but it's a pretty nice place with some cool barsAnyhow, I got my first hint of quite how far Manila is off the average itinerary at Hong Kong Airport.
I'd spent an uneventful flight from Londonenlivened only by the necking of the couple next to me. This wasn't actually as bad as it sounds. For starters, when they weren't playing tonsil hockey, they were actually pretty nice people. Plus, they were uncommonly good looking. He was tall and rugged while she was like a rangier, more amazonian Winona Ryder (this is good thing). When people are this pulchritudinous, you can almost forgive their public canoodles.
Then I changed flights. And, not only did I have the entire row to myself, but I was one of three westerners on the plane. One was a youngish British guy who was married to a Filippino. He was patronising his wife like you couldn't believe, talking to her like an unpleasant father might to a five year old. It looked like a mail order marriage that that needed returning to sender. The other was an American who got rather upset about my putting my rucksack next to his laptop in the luggage locker. So upset in fact that I felt obliged to tell him my bag was full of porn and viruses.
Flying into Manila, you start to see why people stay away. It even looks poor and swampy from the air. You come in over Laguna de Bay, a lake on the south side, whose horrendous pollution is visible from the air. The whole place looks rich in water and mosquito-borne diseases. I'd also heard it was pretty dangerous, with knifings a local specialty.
Actually it's not that awful: it's just a bit...well, there's no compelling reason to be there. Like most Philippine cities, it looks like America would if it was poor. And not in a romantuc sort of way either, just rampant consumerism without much money. I was staying in an area which looked like Soho might if all the buildings were mildewed and crumbling and the sewers overflowing.
My hotel was OK. It had a starbucks at the front of its garden for some reason, but given the usual quality of coffee in these parts, this is not the negative it might at first appear. Along with the coffee it also boasted a gay guy who fancied me. He told me I was handsome. I thanked him and told him I was married. He grabbed my arm and replied imploriningly that 'this is the worst day of my life.' It is an interesting - and, for me, entirely inexplicable - fact that the two groups who find me most attractive are foreign swishes and women over 45. This is my gift; I just wish I would re-wrap it and give it to someone else. In the meantime, I might set up a coaching service for bi-sexuals who fancy older women: 'No...say it like this...'
Shock of the cock
Having slept off 60% of my jet lag, I woke for an early breakfast at a pleasant, but surprisingly overpriced restaurant opposite the hotel. There I fell into a lively conversation with the waiter about cockfighting, one of the Filippino national sports. I think this was somewhat to the the disgust of the British woman next to me, Valerie.
Naturally I passed this off as being interested 'y'know, in the cultural aspect of it, the fact that it's such an obsession here.' She seemed mollified by this excuse for my bloodthirstiness (and it's only half a lie, I just happen to enjoy watching the sunday roast kick its best mate to death, too) and we fell into conversation. She was a granny who had sold her house and was spending her retirement travelling - and quite impressively. She'd been all over the shop - depite a badly athritic knee - and picked up a whole lab full of nasty tropical maladies.
Anyway, having eloborately sketched directions to the local cock-pit, the waiter told me that there were no cock-fights that day, so I went back to the hotel and booked a car to the nearest volcano. On the way to my car, I bumped into Valerie so I invited her along.
Volcan do
Although the Taal volcano doesn't look like much on a map, situated as it is, just beyond the southern fringes of Manila's endless sprawl, it's a pretty casual geological formation in real life. The main crater - so vast it doesn't look like a crater - has a huge lake it in it. In the middle of the lake there is an island with the new volcano on it.
Scattered all around this rather stunning, verdant vista are the blingin' weekend retreats of Manila's wealthy elite. Money has certainly not bought them taste, although it has bought them nice gardens. The Philippinos are great gardeners and garden centres line the road, while tropical blooms scent the air. This, combined with the gaudy architecture gives the whole a sort of Dallas meets the Chelsea flower show feel. It's not disagreeable.
Having lunched in Leslie's restuarnt on the rim (great view, great name), where Valerie displayed an unexpected talent for puddings, we headed down into the crater, where we hired a boat and struck out for the island. Twenty drenched minutes later we were on its blackly volcanic beach.
It is normal here to take horses up, but as a horse allergy sufferer, I alas cannot. So I elected to walk, after having told my boatman for about 15 minutes that, no, I didn't want to give him more money to act as a guide on a trail I about as obvious as a motorway. I do believe that, when in tourist spots, one should behave as a tourist. That is, not find the cheapest possible way to do everything, a la Lonely Planet - and put something back into the local economy. However, when someone you've already paid (and fairly handsomely) starts whingeing at you to accept a service you neither want nor need, you do feel the local economy is taking the piss.
Perhaps mindful of the gay chap from the night before, I decided to run up the volcano in 34 degree heat to reinforce my manly credentials. It took half an hour and earned me a lot of odd looks, but no-one made a pass at me. At the top, the views across the lake are rather splendid (still no unwanted advances) and you can also see another caldera and within it another lake, with its own tiny island. This makes the small island..wait for it an island, within a lake, within an island, within a lake, within an island (Luzon). Somewhere in the US, they claim to have the highest order of this phenomenon, but I think the Taal volcano may just have the edge in what is a rather pointless set of geographic coincidences. I suppose to be really sure, someone could dig a pond in the smallest island.
Somewhat knackered and sporting a pair of blisters from my volacano running I returned to Manila for my tenth sub-adequate meal, the Philippines being the exception to SE Asia's normal great grub rule. Local stuff is bad and so are the imports. This rough repast was a pizza of rather egregious cheesiness at a place called Bar Havana. It was, I suppose authentically Latin American inasmuch as their pizzas are awful, but verisimilitude is not necessarily a good thing.
The waitress gave me a brief burst of excitement by greeting me with 'Hola Que tal?' Cool, I thought, someone who speaks Spanish, so I replied "Muy bien chica, hablas espangnol, me tambien..." Before realising that she habla'd only 'Hola, que tel;' because she worked at Bar Havana. No hay mas parablas.
Stereotype you like
No matter - my meal was further enlivened by my table being being between to other sets of foreigners, who, as it turned out were staying at my hotel. I briefly thought there could be some conversation here, but no. Proving that you should never underestimate how useful stereotyping is, the two Germans behind me were reassuringly, inflexibly rude.
The trio of Americans in front were rather more three dimensional than this, being stupid, rude and loud. They also had a way of describing stuff like they'd only just realised things could be like this, e.g. "Gee, if people's parents aren't rich and they give them SUVs and Gold Amexes they have to walk everywhere and clean the streets for a living.' Well, I would love to think that this note of permanent surprise in these borderline-retarded apercus was some sort of clever rhetorical device. But, I fear these epiphanies were as genuine as they sounded. What it is to be an moron - every day with the shock of the new.
The next day I cabbed out to Manila airport while my driver chatted about the various nationalities. He told me that he too found that the abovementioned stereotypes were a good guide. Rather charmingly the Philippines recieve so few British tourists that he had yet to divine our national stereotype. But he needn't worry...with San Miguel at 16p a bottle and cheap airlines aplenty it's only a matter of time.
Then we moved on to the Phlippinos. I said that I found them very friendly; this is true, they are probably the friendliest people on earth. He agreed, adding that they were emotionally sensitive and romantic, to a man. Was he romantic, I asked. Oh yes, he replied: he was 31 and had eight kids.
Departure loungeing
Manila's airport is no great cop (and the food is dreadful - a brie, ham and jam sandwich for breakfast) but it does have on notable innovation. For a sliding scale starting at a fiver, they offer a pre-flight massage. Well, I had twenty minutes to kill, so I scored a massage in the departure lounge: it was friendly, emotional and senstive.
Then it was time to leave. Fairwell Manila, it was, well, fair. In keeping with General McArthur's famous Philippine bon mots, 'I shall return' but only to pick up my girlfriend at the airport.
1 comments
Manila is not much of a tourist destination. I knew this already, but hey, you live in hope. I mean, Phnom Pen is associated mainly with brutal genocide, but it's a pretty nice place with some cool barsAnyhow, I got my first hint of quite how far Manila is off the average itinerary at Hong Kong Airport.
I'd spent an uneventful flight from Londonenlivened only by the necking of the couple next to me. This wasn't actually as bad as it sounds. For starters, when they weren't playing tonsil hockey, they were actually pretty nice people. Plus, they were uncommonly good looking. He was tall and rugged while she was like a rangier, more amazonian Winona Ryder (this is good thing). When people are this pulchritudinous, you can almost forgive their public canoodles.
Then I changed flights. And, not only did I have the entire row to myself, but I was one of three westerners on the plane. One was a youngish British guy who was married to a Filippino. He was patronising his wife like you couldn't believe, talking to her like an unpleasant father might to a five year old. It looked like a mail order marriage that that needed returning to sender. The other was an American who got rather upset about my putting my rucksack next to his laptop in the luggage locker. So upset in fact that I felt obliged to tell him my bag was full of porn and viruses.
Flying into Manila, you start to see why people stay away. It even looks poor and swampy from the air. You come in over Laguna de Bay, a lake on the south side, whose horrendous pollution is visible from the air. The whole place looks rich in water and mosquito-borne diseases. I'd also heard it was pretty dangerous, with knifings a local specialty.
Actually it's not that awful: it's just a bit...well, there's no compelling reason to be there. Like most Philippine cities, it looks like America would if it was poor. And not in a romantuc sort of way either, just rampant consumerism without much money. I was staying in an area which looked like Soho might if all the buildings were mildewed and crumbling and the sewers overflowing.
My hotel was OK. It had a starbucks at the front of its garden for some reason, but given the usual quality of coffee in these parts, this is not the negative it might at first appear. Along with the coffee it also boasted a gay guy who fancied me. He told me I was handsome. I thanked him and told him I was married. He grabbed my arm and replied imploriningly that 'this is the worst day of my life.' It is an interesting - and, for me, entirely inexplicable - fact that the two groups who find me most attractive are foreign swishes and women over 45. This is my gift; I just wish I would re-wrap it and give it to someone else. In the meantime, I might set up a coaching service for bi-sexuals who fancy older women: 'No...say it like this...'
Shock of the cock
Having slept off 60% of my jet lag, I woke for an early breakfast at a pleasant, but surprisingly overpriced restaurant opposite the hotel. There I fell into a lively conversation with the waiter about cockfighting, one of the Filippino national sports. I think this was somewhat to the the disgust of the British woman next to me, Valerie.
Naturally I passed this off as being interested 'y'know, in the cultural aspect of it, the fact that it's such an obsession here.' She seemed mollified by this excuse for my bloodthirstiness (and it's only half a lie, I just happen to enjoy watching the sunday roast kick its best mate to death, too) and we fell into conversation. She was a granny who had sold her house and was spending her retirement travelling - and quite impressively. She'd been all over the shop - depite a badly athritic knee - and picked up a whole lab full of nasty tropical maladies.
Anyway, having eloborately sketched directions to the local cock-pit, the waiter told me that there were no cock-fights that day, so I went back to the hotel and booked a car to the nearest volcano. On the way to my car, I bumped into Valerie so I invited her along.
Volcan do
Although the Taal volcano doesn't look like much on a map, situated as it is, just beyond the southern fringes of Manila's endless sprawl, it's a pretty casual geological formation in real life. The main crater - so vast it doesn't look like a crater - has a huge lake it in it. In the middle of the lake there is an island with the new volcano on it.
Scattered all around this rather stunning, verdant vista are the blingin' weekend retreats of Manila's wealthy elite. Money has certainly not bought them taste, although it has bought them nice gardens. The Philippinos are great gardeners and garden centres line the road, while tropical blooms scent the air. This, combined with the gaudy architecture gives the whole a sort of Dallas meets the Chelsea flower show feel. It's not disagreeable.
Having lunched in Leslie's restuarnt on the rim (great view, great name), where Valerie displayed an unexpected talent for puddings, we headed down into the crater, where we hired a boat and struck out for the island. Twenty drenched minutes later we were on its blackly volcanic beach.
It is normal here to take horses up, but as a horse allergy sufferer, I alas cannot. So I elected to walk, after having told my boatman for about 15 minutes that, no, I didn't want to give him more money to act as a guide on a trail I about as obvious as a motorway. I do believe that, when in tourist spots, one should behave as a tourist. That is, not find the cheapest possible way to do everything, a la Lonely Planet - and put something back into the local economy. However, when someone you've already paid (and fairly handsomely) starts whingeing at you to accept a service you neither want nor need, you do feel the local economy is taking the piss.
Perhaps mindful of the gay chap from the night before, I decided to run up the volcano in 34 degree heat to reinforce my manly credentials. It took half an hour and earned me a lot of odd looks, but no-one made a pass at me. At the top, the views across the lake are rather splendid (still no unwanted advances) and you can also see another caldera and within it another lake, with its own tiny island. This makes the small island..wait for it an island, within a lake, within an island, within a lake, within an island (Luzon). Somewhere in the US, they claim to have the highest order of this phenomenon, but I think the Taal volcano may just have the edge in what is a rather pointless set of geographic coincidences. I suppose to be really sure, someone could dig a pond in the smallest island.
Somewhat knackered and sporting a pair of blisters from my volacano running I returned to Manila for my tenth sub-adequate meal, the Philippines being the exception to SE Asia's normal great grub rule. Local stuff is bad and so are the imports. This rough repast was a pizza of rather egregious cheesiness at a place called Bar Havana. It was, I suppose authentically Latin American inasmuch as their pizzas are awful, but verisimilitude is not necessarily a good thing.
The waitress gave me a brief burst of excitement by greeting me with 'Hola Que tal?' Cool, I thought, someone who speaks Spanish, so I replied "Muy bien chica, hablas espangnol, me tambien..." Before realising that she habla'd only 'Hola, que tel;' because she worked at Bar Havana. No hay mas parablas.
Stereotype you like
No matter - my meal was further enlivened by my table being being between to other sets of foreigners, who, as it turned out were staying at my hotel. I briefly thought there could be some conversation here, but no. Proving that you should never underestimate how useful stereotyping is, the two Germans behind me were reassuringly, inflexibly rude.
The trio of Americans in front were rather more three dimensional than this, being stupid, rude and loud. They also had a way of describing stuff like they'd only just realised things could be like this, e.g. "Gee, if people's parents aren't rich and they give them SUVs and Gold Amexes they have to walk everywhere and clean the streets for a living.' Well, I would love to think that this note of permanent surprise in these borderline-retarded apercus was some sort of clever rhetorical device. But, I fear these epiphanies were as genuine as they sounded. What it is to be an moron - every day with the shock of the new.
The next day I cabbed out to Manila airport while my driver chatted about the various nationalities. He told me that he too found that the abovementioned stereotypes were a good guide. Rather charmingly the Philippines recieve so few British tourists that he had yet to divine our national stereotype. But he needn't worry...with San Miguel at 16p a bottle and cheap airlines aplenty it's only a matter of time.
Then we moved on to the Phlippinos. I said that I found them very friendly; this is true, they are probably the friendliest people on earth. He agreed, adding that they were emotionally sensitive and romantic, to a man. Was he romantic, I asked. Oh yes, he replied: he was 31 and had eight kids.
Departure loungeing
Manila's airport is no great cop (and the food is dreadful - a brie, ham and jam sandwich for breakfast) but it does have on notable innovation. For a sliding scale starting at a fiver, they offer a pre-flight massage. Well, I had twenty minutes to kill, so I scored a massage in the departure lounge: it was friendly, emotional and senstive.
Then it was time to leave. Fairwell Manila, it was, well, fair. In keeping with General McArthur's famous Philippine bon mots, 'I shall return' but only to pick up my girlfriend at the airport.
