Fuckin oats' Ernie

Baguio City

 

My enduring memory of our night in Baguio is of Swags (by now, commonly referring to himself as "Taylor") on the dance floor of a local club, with a stage full of Filipino's, smiling and dancing away - topless - with a lady-boy. The events leading up to this 'coming of age' are unique in themselves, and perhaps after all it really was the air in Baguio City, but as always, we must start with the beginning.

 

***

Party by night

Study by day

The mountain air hits you first; cool and unbelievably fresh, cleansing your soul from the smog of Manila and the sterile air conditioning of the bus. The number of people hits you second - but, not solely the number of people, but the number of young people - this was student town. Settled up in the hills, with trees all around and a main street similar to Courtenay place, it reminded me of home.

 

Within an hour of settling in to our hotel we were down the road at the local pub, which was a curious blend of the common wooden floors of an Irish pub, the moody lighting of a Chinese opium den, and the sturdy atmosphere of intellectual thought. The usual cast of characters were there - the young Thai gentleman who carried a hunting knife for protection, the boys in skirts giving you intoxicating looks, the singing labourers of the day, and the guys in the corner who don't seem that loud, but just might end up being your best friends; and of course, the young Kiwi adventurers.

 

I got talking to a chap who looked a little over 30 - Brian, I think his name was - who then introduced to his very drunk friend - Ernie. Ernie looked like the guy you never want to get stuck in a lift with. Soon enough, they were familiar with Kiwi lingo, and over a dozen or so SMB's and a round of Chivas Regal whiskey, Ernie learnt - and became infatuated with the term - Fuckin Oats'. Cheers boys - fuckin oats! And all glasses lifted.

 

Fuckin oats' Ernie led us to the next pub, an intimate downstairs affair of lazy haze and modern romance. Two live musicians played (Philippines is full of talented musicians) while the four of us drank more SMB's and ate our habitual pig face. The musician's raspy voices and stark chords softened the atmosphere of the room. They asked us where we were from. New Zealand, we said. Sure enough - along came Katchafire, Kora, and other homespun tunes. How proud we were.

 

By this time Fuckin oats' Ernie kept falling to the floor and taking out a swath of chairs and tables, stumbling around and yelling Fuckin oats! all to uproarious laughter on the floor. Crash to the floor - hilarious. What entertainment our new friend was proving to be.

 

Mind you, he possessed a perceptive mind, none to aware of the nuances of travellers in a foreign country. And, for that matter, he was the head physio at the local university - not a bad gig by any stretch.

 

We tag teamed very drunk Fuckin oats' Ernie and Brian for Archie, 26, and Simeon, 24. I learned later that Simeon is very fond of posting pictures of his finely tuned torso on the internet, and not shy of showing some skin. Archie and Simeon were brothers from up north, and seemed to find a new gear for their new Kiwi friends, who they knew were in for all sorts of trouble. Like us, they knew how to have a good time. Soon, the four of us sat in a taxi heading for a Filipino disco.

 

There were 200 people in there, and we were the only white guys. The tallest too. The signer delighted in pointing out the 'foreign guests' in the room, while we secured a VIP booth, smoked cigarillo's and drunk beer.

 

The place was a big American line dancing hall crossed with a high school disco. A ten-piece band played up front, while the plastic chairs and tables scraped across the floor on the numerous migrations to and from the dance floor. How we were in our element!

 

Archie and Simeon introduced to their friends - and one very cute Hazel - and together we partied the night away. No pretence. No agenda. No motive. Just drink, dance, smoke, and talk. As the night charged on we were feeling rather drunk, especially Simeon, who routinely declared "I'm so drunk" then wobbled around and dropped his head smack bang on the table. Hey, I guess young men everywhere like to get drunk and meet girls.

 

So, the story of Swags. As we danced, Swags caught the eye of a beautiful young lady. How smooth her skin was! How defined her figure! He shot his usual 'blue steel' look, and soon this young lady was all over him. And boy, was she aggressive. Swags could hardly get a word in. He put his arm around her, and flashed a smile.

 

When a stranger kindly whispered in his ear the orientation of the one he danced with, he high-tailed it out of there and drank a beer in three seconds.

 

Somehow, we made it back to our hotel, passing up the prospect of a visit to the seedier clubs around town. Swags was lucky, he narrowly escaped what all young men, I'm afraid, must all fall into at some point during their South East Asian travels.

 

For me, I lost myself in the pleasure of the night, and knew for a fact, that somehow, my association with Baguio would be a  long one.

 

Bustling Baguio - I will return

 

 





A momentary pause

Interlude

 

I look back over the past two weeks. Where have we come from and what have we done? Who have me met? How have we changed in these last two weeks - if at all?

 

I think back to our first day in Manila - clean shaven, pale, clean - and all that downtown grit that seeped into our skin in the first few minutes. I think of our days in Palawan, of Derek, Josie, Dan, Diego, even of Mad Mike. I think of our 36 hour bender in Boracay and our Norwegian friends. I think of Big G in Cebu and all his wonderful friends; I think of Rainer.

 

I see the beaches, the banana trees, the cliffs and sparkling seas of Palawan, I see the beach  - the pollution - of Boracay. I see the chocolate hills of Bohol, Mount Mayon, and the whale sharks of Donsol.

 

I feel the sweat of the Manila streets, the cool water in El Nido, the heat of the sun in Boracay; I feel the freshness of Bohol, the grandeur of Mayon, and the power of the whale sharks.

 

We have changed; at least, I have changed. But as yet, I don't know how, in what way, to whom. The outward manifestation of changes eludes me. All is know is that, as we leave Legaspi to return to Manila, and unknown change is stirring. It is a feeling for now, a tickle of emotion, a pent-up spring, one that that will take us well beyond the congested streets we are about to inhibit.

 

And so begins the Northern Chapter.

 

The power of eight seconds

Donsol

 

Part I

 

A dozen beers each wasn't enough to stop us waking at 6:30 to begin our journey to Donsol. Our chosen method of transportation: motorcycles.

 

Rainer, who had the bike keys for us, was a pathetic excuse for a human being in the morning, and kept us waiting, leaving us sitting on the front porch starting at the pouring rain.

 

Neither the rain nor Rainer's lateness - not our hangovers (which, as a matter of fact, were virtually non-existent in the Philippines) - would deter us from our mission. What might have was the total number of whale shark sightings - yes, sightings, not swims - over the past four days. Total sum - zero.

 

World famous Donsol, home of whale sharks, and close encounters of the underworld kind, devoid of all sea life, and left as another tired, seaside town.

 

We set off. Swags was utterly fearless for his first time on a motorbike.

 

Me, as the leader, got us promptly lost. Though I like to say, I didn't lead us astray, I led us to the district of Albany - the 'upscale' part of Legaspi. At 10:30am we found ourselves in the busy, congested, noisy part of town. We stopped in at the local Jollibee to get our bearings. We got bewildered looks from the staff as we treaded water through their restaurant - such was the state of our soaking wet good-for-nothing selves. It had poured with rain for the entire time we'd been on the bikes.

 

As it turns out, all we really needed to do was follow the same road right by our accommodation all 46km to Donsol. A downtown detour wasn't necessary, but it was fun. And there is something about the Philippines. You're meant to go right, you accidently turn left and end up in all kinds of situations - usually for the better.

 

As the city faded in the distance and the rain continued to pour down, our road narrowed, and we cruised through the lush countryside, sweeping through small villages (and waving) every so often, the locals getting only a glimpse of the famous Kiwi adventurers.

 

The countryside of Donsol

By the time we had reached Donsol - stopping numerous times to 'look' at the rice paddies and tropical jungles of the countryside - we saw the tiny 'tourist office' (shack) was closed. Our appetite for adventured hadn't waned, so we continued on driving, bravely going where no tourist - let alone white man - had gone before.

 

 

It's here where I sit back and reflect for a moment; what we did was something special.

 

The road narrowed and narrowed, until it was the width of a single footpath. The countryside was long and dense, thick with jungles and stretched with rice paddies. The villages - no electricity had seen these parts - yet schools, medical clinics, housing, all of it, were functioning as normal. These parts hadn't seen the modern world, and no Westerner had seen these parts.

 

Towards the 'Compound'

Or so I thought.

 

At the end of the road, after hours of driving, after sitting in tranquil villages and smelling charcoaled chicken and fish, after communicating without speaking - for one boy, who alone we stared at each other for over five minutes - after visiting life that wasn't touched by consumerism, or modernisation, or even, for that matter, the 20th century, we found a white man.  

 

We caught only a glimpse of him. Old, perhaps 60, slow, shirtless, tanned, walking back into his house in the dense jungle, walking as though life had been hard on him, miles from civilisation, here was a man living among the people. Children outside his house stared at the two Westerners on bikes, a man chopped bamboo with a machete, making speed bumps for the local road, a lone woman looked on in solitary silence. And all the while, the man inside brooded, breathed, lived. This was his place.

 

The ghost of Colonel Kurtz, the mysterious compound at the end of the river, echoed powerfully though my soul.

 

The road back to Donsol wasn't quite the same.

 

Swags and his bikes

 

Me on the other side

 

Part II

 

It was 2pm by the time we reached Donsol, our mission to swim with the whale sharks set back slightly by a drive for adventure - and of course, the Englishman at the end of the road.

 

In another stroke of good fortune - call it Kiwi luck - the last and final boat was called back just as it was sailing out. There were no people on it. We would be the last, and only boat on the water.

 

Last boat - we caught it just in time

As Derek would have said "You two jokers will land on your feet."

 

I don't know what Heaven, or the afterlife is like, but if it is anything like the flat, grey sea, the light, white sky, and the panoramic of ocean light, it can't be that bad.

 

We sailed for two and a half hours, our hopes fading by the minute. Swags spent half the time admiring his new 'leather' jacket. I stared at the ocean, sombre. Perhaps our luck had finally run out. There would be no whale sharks for us. The spotter on the end of the boat stared vacantly into space - he was already looking forward to a beer.

 

The Sea Pirates - about time for a beer?

And then it came.

 

I often think about interceptions in life, in chance encounters that somehow seem as though they were designed by a higher power, like the chance and fateful meeting of a friend, a wife, an employer. What was 'our' whale shark doing the previous night while we were eating curried chicken, drinking beer and smoking cigars? Would it know - could it - that for a few brief seconds our paths would cross, and us, two kiwi adventurers far from home, would come across this giant of the ocean and forever reinforce the power of the natural world?

 

The sea pirates reacted.

 

"Aye! Aye!" he screamed. The motor cut off. He reached for us. Fins on, snorkel fitted, let's go!! Follow me! We jumped. Swim. Swim. The water was cold. No time to feel it. Heart pumping. Lungs pounding. Eyes frantic.

 

And then, for 8 seconds, nothing.

 

The whale shark swam below me, slow and steady, silently drifting along just metres from my outstretched hand. My breathing shut out from around me, the splashing of fins and cries of the pirate, all faded away. Everything and everyone drew one last breath, one last connection to the living world.

 

Silence.

 

And then it was gone.

 

Magic moments happen infrequently in life. When they happen, we often wonder 'could I have done differently? Could I have changed something to make it better. Did I do enough?'

 

I don't know, but what I do know is this. When I rose out of the water, the ocean, the sky, the landscape, weren't the same to me. They possessed a presence - so still, so subtle - yet earth shatteringly powerful. I would never see nature the same way again. Never after witnessing the power.

 

The power of 8 seconds.

Part III 

The ride home was much like the ride there; wet, cold and uneventful. Why is it always like that? Is it just me, or is it the country; why do adventures seem to follow me around like a dark rain cloud?

 

We were used to being soaking wet by now, and we enjoyed riding for about half an hour while we still had light.

 

The darkness came. And the fog. And the rain. And the traffic.

 

I gripped the handlebars as hard as I could, peering through the handlebars as hard as my fading eyes would let me. Trucks and busses stormed past me; motorcycles zoomed ahead, while I just stuck to my Grandma's pace.

 

We eventually made it back, well into the night, but not before I had taken a wrong turn down a busy one way street, narrowly missed being smashed to smithereens, and handily rescued by the ever reliable Swags. We made it home, happy to see our friendly little tourist inn.

 

I slept with the whales that night, those silent and powerful creatures of the sea. What a deep sleep I had.

 

The whale sharks of Donsol (somewhere down there...)

 

Hey, Jonny! (and close-talking global superstars)

Legaspi

 

Two days would merge into one. Or was it one day, starting late and ending late, daylight merely a passage between nightly pursuits?

 

Our night started as it always did - with a beer.

 

We met Huey and Johnny in the lobby of the Legaspi Tourist Inn. Both were English, and both had worked in the mines of Western Australia for 9 months, built up a 'war chest' and come to the Philipines to compensate for their sabbatical in the desert. For what it's worth, 'war chests' go a long way in the Philippines.

 

Over about 6 cold beers each (conveniently available from the Hotel front desk, just metres away from our plush surroundings) we got the serious part of the evening out of the way - the benefits, and drawbacks of working in the mines, the money, living in England, and various other topics of interest. Needless to say, it's always interesting to meet people from the other side of the world and get their perspective on things. I hope they thought the same of us.

 

Dinner, and a few more beers later, we found ourselves - I won't lie - in a Filipino strip club. When I say, 'found ourselves'... well, you can use your imagination.

 

Picture a school hall located in an industrial wasteland, with a makeshift stage and plastic chairs, about thirty particularly seedy, yet placid males, and there you have it. Each of the four of us had a lady 'assigned' to us, whose primary role was to encourage the consumption of over-priced drinks, and perhaps keep us from wandering too far.

 

I'm sure they were successful, as my memory has a blank spot in it till about 6pm the next day...

 

View from the window of the Legaspi Tourist Inn... the next day

 

The next day, once I had my bearings again, and had done a few chores, we met our Filipino friend Rainer and his brother. Rainer worked in the adventure shop below us, and was an intense sort of chap. He faced directly into you as he spoke, and did so with a piercing gaze and wide teeth. He spoke about 10cm from your face, a 'close-talker', one would say.

 

Well, he showed us a good time, strip club memories aside.

 

Hey, check that out!

First, we dined on some fine Philippine cuisine, and made our way to an empty Karaoke bar, again filled with small plastic chairs. Swags bought along his 'girlfriend' that he had met the previous night at Dinner, a delightful 20-year old named Connie. For those wanting to know, John is nearly 28. That's an 8 year gap. Also, by now it should be clear, Swags fell in love nearly every day - waiters, barmaids, shopkeepers, janitors, chemist assistants, checkout operators, hooke... you get the picture.

 

Back to Rainer and his mysterious brother.

 

As it turned out, Rainer had a soulful voice with a talent for wispy American rock ballads. Immediately his accent and stilted speech would switch off, and he would become a full-throated, full-blooded American. Give him Bon Jovi, he could blow it away any day of the week. Rainer's brother joined in as well. Boy, did they have some talent. There we were - two Kiwi idiots, sitting like stunned mullets from the previous nights experience, eating Silsig (pig face), and jamming with two global superstars.

 

As the beers piled up on the table, my instincts couldn't help but kick in - this is going to be expensive. But hey, 13 beers, a pack of Marlborough Lights (I'd momentarily taken up smoking), some pig face, all for $15 wasn't a bad deal!

 

I got better and better at singing as the night wore on, my raspy, passion-soaked voice piercing the still night (I'm a Guns N Roses, Pearl Jam kinda guy). By the time Rainer has almost past out, his brother was fast asleep head down in his plate, and Swags and I were just warming up, the early morning hours wore thin, and we were home to bed.



Looming My Mayon... what trouble would find us in Legaspi...

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.