The rage of Mount Mayon

Mount Mayon

Our day started at 5.30am, in a minivan, dressed in gym shorts and a t-shirt, winding down the long path towards the base of Mt Mayon, darkness all around.

Our guides, young men themselves, walked up the 4WD path with us, lush green bush intruding into our path.

The climb started, dense bush, steep, up and over, across and under, the deep green forest wet and damp. Still, we climbed higher.

We emerged from the bush hours later. The mountain opened up and we stood looking at it, looking up the narrow, rocky ravine leading to the unknown summit of Mt Mayon. Fog surrounding us, cold gripping us, we began our ascent once more, slowly, surely, one foot after another, each step mercifully taken. Up rocks, steep rocks we climbed, reminders of volcanic fury everywhere.

We reached our summit - any farther and we would have been overwhelmed by sulphuric gases. Handshakes all around, we had reached our summit. And, the best bacon and egg sandwich I have ever had. Period.

Then the rains came.

Soaking wet, shivering, the fog still chilling our bones, we began our descent. Rain stormed from the heavens, heavy and flat, the waters from above roaring into furious torrents.

Here was danger. Would I slip and fall? Flash floods. Flat-soled Nike shoes weren't made for climbing.

Freezing, wet through, I slipped, fell, slid, gathering speed and momentum, the terror overwhelming. Where would this end? How would it end. Everything rushing through my head at once. Nothing to grab on to. Nothing to stop me. I couldn't stop. Getting faster. Was this it?

Stop!

Caught by the guide, his legs barely holding as I crashed into him. My heart pounding, laughing with my head back as the rains poured down. Bone chilling. Had this man saved me?

Descent. Slowly. Carefully. Painstakingly.

We reached the bush, dodging poisonous snakes with silence and unspoken fear of men who had conquered more. We reached the bottom. Wet, cold, sore, nerves shattered.

I looked up, back one final time. The she stood, silent and brooding, fog covering her flowing tears.

This was it. She had taught me a lesson with her power, her rage - the rage of Mount Mayon.

Savages

Legaspi

We are approaching savageness. Our beards have grown long, our unwashed clothes rot away in our bags, our beach bodies gone from the amount of beer we have drunk, and our skin is sweaty and grimy from the hazy air.

Such is the contrast with Legaspi City that we have arrived in on the morning of the 5th. The perfectly conical Mt Mayon - rising 8,000ft from the earth - looming over the city, which itself spreads across the harbour and along the surrounding hills. A nice city, Legaspi, pleasant and peaceful for sure (along with the typical seedy underbelly), base for adventures, and home to Karaoke bars and atmospheric restaurants.

We begin, like any city, with walking around and getting a feel for the place, which is pretty nondescript. A massage (our first one, slightly embarrassing, and Swags and I right next to each other), a meal and a nap later, the night has come. We done on Bicol cuisine - smoked coconut with Chicken - and end the night staring at the stars, cigar smoke drifting in the still air, the mountain, as always, brooding over the sleeping city.



Refresher

Cebu City

Today was a refresher day. We slept till 1pm, went uptown to a high class mall, and spent most of the afternoon there. It wasn't super exciting, but reinforced the city as a tale of two cities. And naturally, we stopped by the downtown mall one last time for some cheap clothes.

We caught up with D'ary - out friend from Manila - and planned to go out. Unfortunately we were knackered, and fell asleep before we could go out. A disappointment for sure, but we would need our rest for the Legaspi chapter, our next destination.

Chance vs. fate

Bohol

There is a poster on my wall at work that I often think about. It divides the left brain - analytical, strategic, rational, logical - with the right brain - creative, passionate, expressive, in-the-moment - dividing the two sides between columns of black and white numbers and a random splattering of paint colours. I am squarely in the left brain camp, being of sound engineering and accounting stock.

So when it comes to instances of destiny and fate, I am supposed to believe in chance and circumstance. Lately though - when I look back - it's as though destiny, or fate, or some mysterious higher power, is playing a role far greater than I ever imagined.

I'll give you an example.

In 7th form I got 70% in the mid-year maths with statistics exam. Near the end of the year I experienced a rather traumatic time and missed a lot of school. I nevertheless chose to sit the exam. I performed poorly on the exam; I knew I had. Come results time, I had received four results, okay, but a little ropey. Whether or not I got an A bursary would depend on the results of my stats exam.

The next day I got a letter in the mail saying they had lost my exam paper and would use my mid-year exam results as my mark, thus handing me an A Bursary. I was too lost in the elation of my achievement to think anything of if. It wasn't until later when a friend told me that 'someone is looking out for you' did I think anything of it.

Well, maybe they are.

How many times do we have instances of chance that somehow fit exactly into how we're feeling, or what we're doing, or what we're planning to do? How many times do seemingly random and unexpected chances link up to trigger a lifetime of events?

If you're a left-brain individual like myself, you probably cast a skeptical eye over the matter of chance. Everything has a rationale explanation, and the elements of chance are just that: chance. For the right brain types, these things were meant to happen.

I'll never know the answer to this one. Let's just say my logical side wins, but I can be convinced otherwise.

***

There were no tickets to Bohol in the economy section of the boat. We would have to take business class. Waiting in the somewhat damp, but exclusive business class lounge were a handful of people, including one Guillermo Munro Colosio (Memuco) or Big G, as we came to call him.

Big G was a big Mexican with a big heart. He was passionate, talented, a graphic design artist, and knew how to live life to the full. With him we did a whirlwind tour of Bohol, including the Chocolate Hills, - a collection of 1000's of identically sized 'teardrop' mountains at the centre of the island - the Tarsiers (small gremlin like creatures with very large eyes) and centuries old churches. We closed the day sitting on the edge of the water, eating charcoaled meat and drinking cold beer, watching the sun go down.

Towards the end of the day, a typhoon had cancelled the two boats scheduled before us. We were the first ones allowed to sail. What a horrid ride it was. Squashed in the hot, smelly economy-class section, I gripped the side of the seat and read half of my book more intensely than I've ever read anything before, distracting myself from the rocking boat, crashing waves, and 3 metre swells.

Big G was going out with a few friends for dinner. In true Kiwi style, we tagged along. At dinner we enjoyed Cebu-famous Lechun - Pig (all of it, face included) - and a destination pub called 'Outpost' that featured a live band playing early 90s rock hits: home-run. We enjoyed it immensely, and met some great people.

At the end of the night - was it 2am - we were dropped back downtown to mix once again with the street hustlers, pimps, drug dealers, child beggars and prostitutes. Oh, what a city.

***

I don't know much about fate, or change, or whatever strange force is out there that gives rise to events - either now or in the future - but we owe it to Big G and his friends that we got to see the better side of Cebu, and have a really great night.

And who knows, maybe the meeting in the business class lounge of a ferry terminal was only the first chapter. Maybe one day that chance meeting will lead to something great, something inspirational, something the makes a difference, even if only a small one. So Big G, we can do this thing we talked about. Maybe not now, maybe not even soon, but someday, we'll do something, and we'll make a difference.  

We owe a chance meeting that much.



A tale of two cities

Cebu City

The second day of the year would be a good lesson in not taking a city at first glance. Cebu City, where we found ourselves, is the second biggest and oldest city in the Philippines. And it's so much more chilled out than Manila!

The city is divided into roughly two areas - downtown and uptown. We stayed in downtown, naturally, which was the seedy part of town.

Thus formed my view of the city - beggars, pimps, lady(boys), dealers, users, street bums, urchins, shotguns and the typical assortments found in the cracks and alleys of a big city.

For once it was time to indulge in a western activity - shopping. On a corner, we found what would become a love affair: the Metro mall. Those who know me know that I hate shopping. I hate it with a passion. My idea of shopping is to know exactly what I want, to be in the store for as short a time as possible, and have as little interaction with the staff as I can. Well, within minutes of stepping inside the store, a new man emerged. Stylish clothes were everywhere, and they were cheap, and to top it all off there were loads of very attractive Filipino ladies at my every beck and call. They were surely amused by the tall white guy; I personally hadn't seen a white guy - other than Swags (okay, so now we'll refer to John as "Swags") - in days. Over the course of the trip (there are over 400 of these malls in the Philippines) I would buy more clothes than I've cumulatively bought in my entire life. I even had to send a few boxes home.

We spent most of the day touring the city sights - San Pedro Fort, San Magellan's cross - and other historical sights. Cebu was about 400 years old, founded by the Spanish a very long time ago. Like good tourists, we took lots of photos.

Near the day's end, we strolled along the water, watching fishing boats come in, and making nice with the security guard and some of the other locals. They were surely somewhat confused by our presence, but nonetheless were very friendly. We were becoming better travelers, mixing with the locals a lot better.

This would become a reoccurring theme. In the Philippines I felt like an adventurer, a traveler, in other places, I would feel like a tourist.

We went down a few dark streets for dinner ("you wan lady?"), getting a quick bite and a few odd looks, before beating a hasty retreat back to the hotel, child beggars and street urchins aside.

It was good to have a rest that night. The past week had been an intense week of activity, and knowing we'd have five days in Cebu, we welcomed the opportunity for some downtime.

Dead to the world

Cebu City

 

We arrived in Cebu City early in the morning, and had a look around. We went back to our hotel room, and fell asleep at 3pm. We woke at 7am the next day.

Soapbox

Boracay

 

I didn't get out of bed till midday. The past six days had been a full on assault on the senses, and a lie in was just what I needed. The bed was cloaked in a green mosquito net, but that didn't stop us getting bitten to hell. So began our daily routine of: have shower, apply creams. Aloe Vera for sun burn, sunscreen for the day ahead, insect repellant, bite cream and so forth.

 

I also slept late because I knew the night would be a long one.

 

The beach we were on was a kite surfer's mecca. Looking out over the sea, hundreds of colourful kites and boarders jumped, glided and bumped across the water. I spent the whole day lounging around and avoiding the sun.

 

Late afternoon we took a walk to White Beach, the famous Philippine tourist destination. After being in Palawan with it's perfect water and untarnished beaches, I didn't think much of the scenery. Restaurants and shop fronts crowded onto the beach, and the crowds of people had clearly taken their toll on the island's facilities. The stench of rubbish said it all, not to mention the huge piles of it.

 

Early evening we decided to go for a run - shirts off, bandanas on. It was so strange. Literally within five minutes from the heavily congested, noisy, polluted tourist areas, the noise and activity dropped away, leaving us to run through quiet store fronts and village houses. People cooked all kinds of meat - pig, chicken, beef - and the smells filled the air. Children danced and played, people listened to music, adults sitting around with drink in hand, people smiling all the way.

 

Sweat pouring off me, panting,  and people waved and yelled 'hello' and 'come back', and for a brief moment, I felt like I had finally arrived on the island.

 

Back on the quiet side of the beach, in our bamboo bungalow, the concept of mass marketed tourism became clear to me.

 

Make no mistake, Boracay would have been beautiful some time ago, and if you know what you are getting - resorts, masses of people, restaurants and upscale bars - it can be fun. But when something is mass marketed around the world as a tourist destination, it isn't about the experience, it's about the dollar. Packaging the tourists, shipping them in and out, every job on the island devoted to satisfying western consumption.

 

Perhaps I am being cynical. Maybe I was just jaded from all our activities, and needed a good sleep. And after all, New Year's was fun. We bought in the New Year with the Norwegians, there was masses of fireworks over the water, we listened to live music and drank our fair share.

 

I got home at 3am and slept like a log. John woke me round 6am, not having slept and having just swam in the ocean as the sun came up. I had to wake him up in the airport lounge just before our flight, as we hightailed it out of there to Cebu City.