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.

 

 

Beach life in Boracay

Boracay

 

Palawan would have no more time for us. We awoke at 4:30am after ten beers and four hours sleep (it was worth it) on Dan's porch, and waited at the roadside for our ride. We waited 40 minutes - and were sweating it for our midday flight.

 

A six hour van ride, two flights, a tricycle ride, a boat ride and another tricycle ride later, we found ourselves lucky again. Who knew, there was no more accommodation on Boracay, given the second busiest night of the year - the day before New Year's Eve. A bump on the head of the boat would prove fortuitous, as a Belgian girl named Danielle laughed at me, prompting me to take the empty seat next to here and stage a quick recovery. Ha ha, that was funny.

 

We accompanied Danielle to the 'quiet' side of the island and checked a few places, all of which gave cheerful grins and said 'sorry' in impoverished tones. Well, Kiwi's being Kiwi's, the third place I checked - metres from the beach - had one room available, as someone had just cancelled at the last minute! The place was a bamboo built second story flea infested pit with no shower, but it was accommodation, and it only cost $15 per night between us. Not bad for Philippines number one tourist destination on the night before New Years'.

 

We settled in with a few beers and within a few minutes had made friends with three Norweigian lads - Eamon, Jonas and Daniel, who had been travelling together for some time. Such instinctive kinship, I think, is so rare and often found in the most unexpected places, and only in certain circumstances. No one had any guard up, and it seemed so effortless. More beers, a meal, and the usual laddish antics later, that bond was sealed, though I don't think the two Russian girls who joined us had quite as much fun.

 

As we talked, word got out that I was keeping a journal and all that kind of thing. One of the lads - Dan - was a talented Ukele player and singer. He suggested I write a song for him. Well, over about an hour, I did just that.

 

And here it is, my first ever song:

 

Passing my way on these waves

Wind in the trees

On this night full of light

Crashing hard on the shore

Baring my soul to the sky

You will forget me again

 

There are another three verses, a chorus, bridge, and melody, but for fear of relentless mocking and endless teasing, I won't go any further. If you want the whole thing, send me an e-mail and I might send you the whole thing.

 

But probably not.

 

The ballad of El Nido

El Nido

 

Looking back on it I realise how fortunate we were, and how lucky we were to land on our feet. El Nido could easily have been the place we turned up to, stayed in a flea infested shoe box, done a boat cruise, no less overwhelmed by the underwhelming experience of it all. Such was not the case. We found the closest thing to paradise I have ever found, and I felt the greatest sense of inner calm I have for some time.

 

That was our story of El Nido.

 

But there is another story going on.

 

This the story of villagers who grow up to become waitresses, of fishermen who grow up to become tour guides, of children who grow up to sell post cards and tacky necklaces, of shop fronts who replace rice and bananas with postcard-perfect tours and price tags.

 

El Nido, as yet untouched by the mass of tourists - and struggling under the weight of the existing tourists - retains a beauty, a charm, and independence that is hard to find in South East Asia.

 

Now, as Lonely Planet's No.1 thing to do in the Philipines - such is the power of this medium - it will swell and change into a beast to serve the tourist dollar, not the kids playing basketball or mothers cooking chicken over charcoaled barbeques in the evening sun. Yes, tourists will bring dollars and jobs, not previously tapped, and with that more guest houses will spring up, shops will modernise, roads will be paved, restaurants will start selling cheeseburgers as well as meat on a stick, and the winds of change will sweep through the village.  

 

And how do I place my experience of El Nido with that of the unstoppable tourist wave? After all, I am a tourist. I too snap photos of lagoons and beachfronts, eat in restaurants and drink at pubs. I, whether consciously or not, am there to consume - whatever form that may take. And it is for the beauty of the place and the consumption within that people come to this place. Is it only for the chosen few, such that it retains it's charm for the few who do go there?

 

This conflict can never be resolved. Towns change, evolve, as do people, sometimes leaving behind nothing of what once was.

 

Let us hope the Ballad of El Nido is a happy one, one that let's change happen for the better. Let us hope that the growing pains that inevitably come are kept to a minimum, so that one day that town that gave Derek, Josie, Dan, and us such a wonderful few days will do the same for others - both local and international.

 

We can only hope.

 

 

Mad mike

Bacuit Archipelago

 

Two days till the end of the year and I woke - after just a few hours' sleep - on the corner beach that I had come to call home. Once more, I reflected on our good fortune, forever grateful to the kind souls that put us there.

 

A serene calm came over me, matched by the still water and coconut trees hanging loosely in the air. Islands sprang from the shimmering water, matching my idle stance; this was what it meant to be alive.

 

John finally woke from his slumber (boy, had it been a long night for him), and before eight we walked along our empty stretch of beach (save for two lovely ladies) and headed into town. From there we booked a boat tour, spending the day cruising the islands of the Bacuit Archipelago, swimming in caved lagoons (35 metres deep), bathing on deserted beaches, and snorkeling among the coral and fishes.

 

Our day of peace, our day of tranquility, the sun peering over the edge of cylindrical lime cliffs as we floated on our backs. Clear, calm, the very essence of island life. We ate charcoaled fish and pork for lunch - both fresh - before cruising back to El Nido later in the afternoon.

 

A quick side note - before I came on this tripped I was warned that I am a "white pakeha", which essentially means I am one of two colours. You guessed it - white or red. Not believing in the myth that white boys like me can't tan, I learned the hard way. That day, I changed from vanilla white to lobster red. I still had my beach body (soon to be ruined from too many San Miguel's), but now I was a flaming red. I guess I am a white pakeha.

 

Mad Mike - our 29 year old captain - and who had earned about $10 a day on the boat out there, joined us for a beer on the beach at the end of the day, such was our custom. His skin was darkened from the sun, and he flashed a toothy smile as we recounted the day's adventures.

 

Late in the afternoon we walked back to our quiet beach - and the best swimming spot on the island. The sun lowered as we swam, dipping as we walked back to our corner spot. Against the shilouette of flaming red and golden orange, our friends waited for us - Derek, Josie, Dan - and a couple of new additions. The night grew still, the sky darkened. A single flame; the only light emitting from the little corner; the sound of laughter; happiness.

 

We ate from there - the last supper - and enjoyed dinner with a familiar east of family long past. This was life.

 

Our goodbye's came, but I knew it would not be the end. A respect earned, a respect gained, and an experience to remember forever. Two white pakeha's from Tawa, fortunate and lucky beyond all sense of possibility, yet made possible by a bit of luck and the kindness of others. My only repayment will be, in time, hoping that one day I can pass on the kindness that was bestowed upon us, and only then will I feel the ledger has balanced. Until then, I will forever remain in gratitude.

 

We slept on a mattress outside Dan's apartment that night - his final act of kindness - and got our second night of just four hours sleep, as our transport would be leaving at 5am.  

 

Oh well, we could always sleep in Boracay. Or not.