Filipino DIY

The Philippines has an impressive array of modes of transportation that can make any day’s travel unique. The most famous of their unique vehicles is the jeepney, a boisterously decorated limousine jeep. Its roots are in WWII when the US military left behind a whole bunch of modified army jeeps. Now they serve as public transport throughout the country. Some of them look ancient, and just might be originals. Many, especially in the cities, are newer and locally made. They are definitely pumped out of a factory, but instead just cobbled together in local auto shops. That is why most of their chassis look different than the one right behind it. Their paint jobs are the real treat though. Many hold true to a certain theme and color scheme, for example the many that have chosen a certain NBA team. Just watching traffic for one beer in Cagayan de Oro, I was pretty sure I saw the whole league drive by. Many are religious themed, while others have impressively spray-painted Disney characters. Chrome ornaments always goes over nicely. Others just have cool designs. My favorite looked like it had just come out of the body shop. It was painted in various shades of purple and had nautical themed-phrases written on it, including “Liberian Registration”, a nod to the country where people register their boats to avoid taxes and fees. If I pretend they are floats in a parade, I can sit and watch the street pass by for hours, never bored as each jeepney is completely different than the last. Most countries do a good job of decorating their trucks and buses, but the way they did it in the Philippines is something special and boundless. Jeepneys are the true Kings of the Road and a perfect symbol of the Philippines’ history, spirit, and creativity.

Jeepney

Next we have a whole fleet of various 3-wheeled vehicles. Most are some variation of the tuk-tuk, but even more unique since, like the modern jeepney, are built in local shops and don’t follow a uniform design. The tricycle is basically a modified motorbike with a carriage rigged onto the back. This can easily haul six, maybe eight passengers. We also have the sidecar version of this, which only holds a couple passengers, and feels completely flimsy as you bump along with all your luggage in the welded mess. There are also a variety of human-powered cycle rickshaws. Some just have big carts attached for hauling stuff. Others have seats for people, which could be the kind in front or behind the bike, or even on a sidecar. Needless to say, these vehicles are well-decorated as well.

Even in urban areas, Filipinos are not above animal transport. In Cebu’s downtown area we saw the occasional Tartanilla, a horse-drawn two-wheeled cart. Supposedly in Manila these are mostly for tourists these days, but in Cebu it seemed mostly for the locals. The horses were in such rough shape that I imagine most tourists wouldn’t feel ethical about having these animals pull them around.

Then we could talk about boats. However, I think that would require a book. The Philippines is obviously a country where life revolves around water and boats are as important to people as land vehicles are. Boats in the Philippines are as varied as snowflakes, though far more abundant. Ferries, barges, passenger boats all come in an assortment of designs and sizes, as do the smaller fishing or short distance boats.

To me, what seemed so interesting about all these various forms of transportation was that it showed the Philippines’ DIY spirit. Even for a developing country they made a remarkable number of things locally ramshackle shops. Throughout the streets of towns and cities you could come across places where men were hard at work bending steel, cutting wood and installing speakers into just about anything. I felt like if I ever have a great idea for some new contraption, but don’t know how to build it, I will just go to the Philippines and describe it to the local handymen. I feel that their creative minds are always on the same wavelength as the mechanics on Xzibit’s “Pimp My Ride”.

My favorite locally made contraptions were the karaoke machines. The self-contained units had a TV of varying age and quality installed in the top half of cabinet made of plywood. The bottom half of the cabinet contained the speakers. There was a panel with large 80’s arcade style button from which you could program the upcoming songs and the background videos. The mistakes in the lyrics and inconsistency in quality of songs was proof that all the music was pirated from a variety of sources.

Even things that I usually see made locally, like spear guns and bbqs are done here with much higher standards. The bbqs are not just halved oil drums, but elaborate rotisserie contraptions that run on a little motor attached to a motorcycle chain that turns the rods of roasting chickens. I saw all sorts of iron smithing going on. They made some really great machetes that had impressive form and function. I’ve had two machetes before, both of which were almost certainly made in China. I wanted a locally made Filipino machete, but knew I couldn’t justify its presence on my pack. It was useful every day in Mali, but I just didn’t see where I would need it the way this trip was going.

Maybe all this is local craftsmanship is not that impressive, but for someone that has grown up in modern America where machine shop no longer exists in schools, it is completely foreign to me. It is also an inspiration, though. We think that our society becomes more advanced the more our labor is specialized, But these days, how many people with a college degree know how to do anything with their hands?

And a few extra photos:

Filipino Hospitality

August 9, 2011

Lise woke me up in the middle of the night. She said she had felt a drop. Immediately, we leapt up into action. It was emergency tent time. We knew what to do, and we were inside the tent while the rain was still a tiny drizzle. By the time the sun came up, the rain was pounding our tent, and I could hear all the other beach sleepers around us gather up their bedding and run back to the village.

Within an hour or two, the weather was back to normal.

Fishermen round the edge of the island.

The rain continued through the morning, so we just lazed in the tent until it passed. Then we laid out the tent to dry in the sun. It didn’t take long as it went from pouring rain to blazing sun in about eight seconds. Martin came and found us and asked if we wanted to go for a ride on his boat. Well…of course. We walked through the village, said hello to his mother and informed her that we would be out on the boat. His dad was already out fishing, but we took their smaller boat. It was a rickety little canoe with outriggers on either side to keep the boat stable in rougher seas. We didn’t know exactly what the plan was, but we trusted in Martin. He paddled from the back of the boat. We offered to put our time in paddling, but he insisted that we just relax.

We skirted the edge of the island for a while, passing a few fishermen along the way. When Martin did finally give me a chance at paddling the boat, I found that I had completely lost any paddling abilities I once had. The boat almost immediately veered left into the island, and I was trying to remember where to place my paddle to correct my mistake. Martin took over soon after. We asked if we could go for a swim, so Martin tied up the boat, and we took turns with my snorkel. We found what I could only describe as a bionic starfish. It was big and orange, with large black spikes. Martin also warned us about what looked like a bionic sea urchin. I had never seen anything like this, and it seemed to have extra appendages with more large spikes on it. I stayed far away from this beast.

The Village

I had asked Martin if many tourists make it out to this island and he said no, and estimated maybe once a month. When we rounded the beach, though, we saw a boat arrive and four older white people step onto shore, carrying crates of beer and a picnic. I was shocked, partly because I had had a dream the night before that some tourists would show up on the island. They seemed to have a guide, who sat them down at a table near a shop on the beach. The women wore bikinis and the fat old men wore tiny swim trunks. I felt a little like they had invaded our island, and knew it was a sign of things to come. A few more rich tourists come around, and somebody is going to build a small beachfront hotel. More people will come, restaurants will be built, maybe a nicer hotel. Within a few years the whole thing that made this amazing to us, the hospitality, sleeping on the beach, the adobo from the only shop that sold cooked food, would all be but a memory as the island sells out to tourism. I have seen many places at varying stages of this destruction, but this was one of the few places I have been to that is at the brink of being “discovered”.

Swinging around the southeastern tip of the island next to the "Relax Spot"

We circled the whole island, which probably took an hour, maybe more, and parked the boat. We went to the woman that sold the adobo and had lunch. As we ate, various people came by the shop to buy candies, cigarettes or instant noodles and have a chat with us. The day was getting absurdly hot, and it didn’t help that we had spent the last couple hours in the direct sunlight. We asked Martin if there was any freshwater swimming place back on the main island. He told us of a lake and a cave that had a swimming hole in it. We said we would go back to the island, but if he wanted to come with us, he was welcome. He seemed happy about this, so we packed up our things and he arranged our transport back to the main island. We thought we had gotten a good price on the way there, at 25 pesos each, but it turned out the standard rate is just five pesos (12 cents) per person.

Back on the other island, Martin arranged a couple of motorbike drivers to take us to this swimming cave. We didn’t found out until we arrived that Martin had not settled the price with them before we left. So, obviously they now wanted a huge sum. We had an idea of what it should have cost, but they were tripling that. Martin looked embarrassed, but was still too intimidated by these guys to stand up for us. When we finally got our price down to 60 pesos, they claimed not to have any change for our 100 peso note. Of course. Walking away without paying though, made the change mysteriously appear out of some unknown depth of their pockets.

We paid for Martin’s entrance into the cave and we descended into it’s narrow opening. The occasional light bulb along the ceiling, showing the way through the damp cave. Within minutes we came upon a surprisingly large fresh water pool with a shrine to Mary set up next to it. There were a couple of young Filipina girls there, splashing around and giggling. After hours in the arresting heat, and weeks of swimming in tepid saltwater, this fresh pool provided unfathomable relief. Most of the pool was lit, but there were a few corners that were completely dark. We basically just bobbed around in the water for close to an hour, before it was time to move on.

We paid for Martin’s motorbike and boat fare and bade him goodbye and good luck. Now it was up to us to arrange a moto-taxi back to the town where we had first landed on the island. Nobody would give us the same fare that we had originally paid to get there, so we just started walking. Sure, we didn’t plan to walk the 13 km, but there was no point hanging out around a bunch of moto-taxi drivers that wouldn’t give us a good deal. We would figure something out. A few of the drivers, stalked us along the road, but never offering us a price that we could agree with. Finally they left us alone, and it was up to our thumbs. It was a good thirty minutes of walking before we got our first ride. It was with a couple of young brothers with a motorbike and a side car. It wasn’t so much as a sidecar as it was a sidebox, or sidecage. The floor was a square wooden platform, with cage walls around the side. They were pretty confused by us, but we just showed that we wanted to get in their sidebox, and we were off. They only went a couple km, but it was a memorable ride.

It was a fairly long wait before the next vehicle passed, but when it did, we waved about enthusiastically. It was a pickup truck with about eight guys sitting in the bed. They said they were going all the way to Poro, our destination. It was pretty cramped back there. They said they didn’t speak English, but they seemed to just be a little modest. I asked if they were working and they confirmed my assumption. They pointed to a stack of large plastic basins. One of the men said, “We are going around the island selling these,” and then he paused to think of a good word to describe them, “dishwashers!” They all laughed.

When we arrived in Poro, they dropped us near the port. As we climbed out of the truck, we heard an American accented voice say, “Wow, looks like you guys are having fun!” Yes, that was true. We turned around to a see a white girl dressed pretty much like a typical hipster. She got right into conversation with us. We were surprised to see her, and we were caught off guard by her forward demeanor. She was in the Peace Corps, and she seemed like she hadn’t spoken to someone in English in quite a long time. She had a lot of catching up to do. We asked her if she knew when the boats left for Ponson Island, the tiny and most remote of the three Camotes islands. She laughed and said, “Oh! That’s a long story!” Basically, she had little faith that there were any sort of regular boats going there, but if we went to the other port, on the north end of this island we might find something. She also offered us a place to stay that night if we decided not to go north for that boat. She seemed eager to have visitors, but we decided to sally forth.

We walked for a while out of town, gathering information that there was a local bus that would come this way soon. Before it came, though, we got a flat bed semi truck to give us a ride. They were going around the island delivering sacks of animal feed. We sat in the back with two of the workers. They were stayed quiet during the 45 minute ride. It was only about 15 km until they dropped us off, but it left us just a couple km from the port town, Santa Rosa.

It was almost dark when we set out on foot toward the tiny town. We knew we wouldn’t get a boat this day; we were just hoping that there would be a place to sleep in town. As we approached what was not so much a town as a very widely spread out collection of a few houses, we asked someone if there was a place to sleep. They said we should go talk to the “Capitan”. We made our way to the Captain’s (Chief?) house and introduced ourselves. It was a modern place with a shop on front. The wife of the captain welcomed us in and told us to wait for her husband. We sat on a bench next to their little shop. Suddenly, small bags of ice became a hot item at this shop. We weren’t sure if everyone needed to chill their drinks, or they wanted to see who the captain’s new guest was.

When the Captain arrived, he said we were welcome to stay at his house, since the local two-room community guesthouse was already occupied. He showed us to our room (a spare bedroom) and said that his daughter would make us dinner. She was close to our age and had a child. If I remember correctly, her husband is working abroad. She showed us a can of “American Corned Beef” and asked if we liked this. Well, of course. She made some sort of sauce with this, which turned out to be quite delicious over the rice. She also brought us a big bottle of Pepsi and a bucket of ice. We assumed that they had already eaten, but about twenty minutes after we were finished, while we were sitting outside, the daughter came and said that they would be eating now. I thought it kind of unique that although they were welcoming us into their home and being extremely hospitable, we were kept very separate. It was our first time staying with Filipinos, so we were not clear on some of the etiquette. We asked if, while they ate dinner, we could go on a walk to see the town. They found this to be a very bizarre request. First of all, they said it was dangerous and that we might get lost, which sounded absolutely absurd to us. We tried to explain that we would be fine and would be back in thirty minutes, maybe less. We should have just dropped it at the first sign of resistance, though, because now they decided it would be ok if we were chaperoned. We said that we would just stay home and that it was not a big deal. Now they were insisting it was no problem to find someone to take us around town. We seemed to have no choice. They brought some 14 year old girl that lived nearby and spoke some English to accompany us on our evening stroll. It felt completely ridiculous, and we regretted even asking to go out in the first place.

The girl was sweet though, and we had a good conversation with her along the way. After just five or ten minutes, though, we said we should go back now. We didn’t want to be troubling her because the Captain had demanded her to stay with us. Now she seemed really worried. “You want to go back?! Now?! But we haven’t gone far enough!” It almost seemed like she had been told that she had satisfy our deep desires to see the whole town. She seemed much more at ease when we said that we wanted to see the port. It was a thirty minute walk, and it was probably not a bad thing that we knew where it was for the next morning. We had learned that there would be a boat leaving at 5 AM the next morning, so it was good to know how far away and where it was.

Back at the house, it seemed that we had been gone too long. By this time, at around 8:30, the family seemed ready for bed and waiting for our return. We asked if we would be able to leave at 4 AM, since their gate would be locked. They now said that there, in fact, was no 5 AM boat, and we would have to go later in the morning and charter a boat. They told us the normal price to make the 4 km crossing, which was more than we wanted to pay, but not unreasonable. We weren’t even sure if we believed them. What had changed in the last hour? We were so confused by this family that we wouldn’t have been shocked to find out that they just didn’t want us to walk to the port in the dark, or that they didn’t want to wake up at 4 AM to open the gate for us. Either way, there was little we could do.

The next morning they made us breakfast of tapsilog (rice, eggs, meat) and coffee. Then we thanked them and headed for the port. We started negotiating the price for the boat, hoping to get it for 300 pesos each ($7). They resisted for a while (we were adamant, at that point that we would pay no more than 200 pesos) but suddenly they said, ok, 200 pesos. We didn’t understand, at first, where this miraculous price came from, but then we saw the boat approaching from the other island. Basically, this guy who was coming to drop off passengers on this island was expecting to return with an empty boat, so if he could get a few hundred pesos out of us, that would be free money for him on the way back. I assume that the first man we were negotiating with was getting a cut of our money for fixing him up with us. It was fine for us though. I think we all won.

His shirt reads: Lion Tiger Mosquito Killer.

Arriving on Ponson Island

Ponson Island was a preview of what I expected was to come on little Tulang Island, where we stayed with our friend Martin. Just a couple years ago, when our guidebook was written, there was no accommodation on this island, and they suggested the beach in Kawit was a good place to camp. This was our plan, but as we arrived, we discovered the beach front was now taken up by a modest resort with bungalows. A man approached us, asking if we needed a place to stay. When we said no, he asked if we needed a mototaxi. We were somewhat disappointed, so we decided just to cross the island to its main port and get out of there. We walked out of the little village, found some shade and sat down, hoping that some day a car might pass us. It was a thirty or forty minute wait before something came. It was a large truck that said on the side “Emergency Government Vehicle”. Apparently it was a vehicle that would provide an emergency government. We climbed into the back and started cruising north. Everyone we passed seemed to do a double take when they saw us riding back there. The attention was kind fun. It was only about ten km from one end of the island to the other, but the road wasn’t in the best shape and it took about half an hour, maybe more. We arrived at the port, just an hour before the next boat would be leaving to the large island of Leyte.

Hitchin' on Ponson Island.

Sweet bamboo hut; pretty typical.

Although it looked like it could get stormy, the boat ride was calm, and we arrived quicker than expected.

Boat the main(er) land

We didn’t spend too many days in the Camotes Islands, but they were incredible. It is really one of those places that I will keep in my pocket, for when I need a quick escape to somewhere perfect.

Getting Pretty Close to Paradise

August 7, 2011

Sometimes there is no quick way to shake someone that is set on making money off of you. Sometimes, though, there is, and it is just a matter of knowing what to say. This was a time when I did not know. We had walked into the port in Cebu City to buy our boat tickets. We had an hour to kill, so we walked back out of the gated area to look for some dinner and caffeine. As soon as we walked out, a guy ran up to us, offering us his taxi services. I said no, but of course that meant nothing to him. Then he started asking where we were going. “Nowhere”. “Just over there”. Or just ignoring him. Nothing worked. He kept following and offering suggestions of hotels. So I tried to put a stop to it by saying, “we’re just looking for something to eat.” His eyes lit up as he realized he had made progress. “Oh, I’ll take you to Jollibee’s!” the local fast food chain. Then I realized that I should have made it clear from the beginning that we had not just gotten off a boat, but were simply waiting for our boat to leave. As soon as I told him, he smiled and said goodbye. I have become so secretive and mistrusting of taxi drivers that I have completely forgotten that honesty is sometimes the best policy.

When we bought our boat tickets, we had to give our names, which would be printed on the ticket. I decided to give them my assumed false name for the Philippines: Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf. Of course, they had no reason to know why it would be funny. It was a delight to actually see that printed on my ticket. Then I got nervous, though, because there was a lot more security at this port than the others and not only did we have to check in our bags like at an airport and give our names a second time, but go through security where they checked our tickets and our ID’s. Luckily, though, nobody caught on to the minor fib.

We were disappointed to find that our boat was what I described as a rocket-ship boat in Malaysia, or as Edward Gargan called it a cigar tube. No ventilation, loud movie, AC (though being the Philippines, it barely functioned) and nearly opaque windows. Not to mention, we were still a little rattled from a recent boat experience and we were hoping for the biggest, most unsinkable-even-by-god-himself boats. The couple hour hop to the Camotes, a tiny group of islands between the larger islands of Cebu and Leyte, was, thankfully, unremarkable.

Although the little town of Poro on the island of Pacijan was not our actual destination, we had arrived after dark, and decided to stay there for the night. We pushed through the hordes of motorbike taxis (there’s no public transport on these islands except for on Sundays) and walked to the most budgetty hotel. It was a tiny little guesthouse in a family’s home. The reception area was indistinguishable from a living room. Out back there was a nice view of the sea. The price was a little higher than expected, but Lise managed to get us a bit of a discount by lacking interest when we first saw the room, although there was really nothing wrong with it.

With little going on in this tiny town, we did as we normally would and followed our ears to the sound of karaoke. It always sounds hideous, but when you are waiting your turn to sing, it becomes quite tolerable. The only things open in this town at this hour were two convenience stores. They also had karaoke machines and served beer and liquor to customers at the plastic tables and chairs out front. And best of all, they were right next to each other. It really made no sense. Unless you were just a couple feet in front of the machine, it was impossible to distinguish one song from the one playing on the other machine. It was ridiculous, but since nobody else seemed to care, we played along. We ordered some rum and coke and looked through the songbook. One of the young girls from the karaoke machine on the right invited herself to our table and chatted us up for a while. It was nice to talk to her, but really, we just wanted to get to singing. I knew my days were numbered. That is, my days to shamelessly sing whatever song I wanted incredibly poorly and not even care because I would receive applause anyway. Yep, I knew it would be hard to find that luxury outside of the Philippines.

I had the pen and paper and wrote down the song numbers that Lise wanted to sing as she read them to me. When her song came around, she had a weird look on her face. She glared at me. She started to sing, but the words did not match what was on the screen. “I’ve never heard this song before, so I don’t know why I am singing it,” she improvised, “It’s probably because somebody is an idiot and doesn’t know how to write down four simple numbers.” She actually fooled me for a few seconds. But it was true, I had written down the wrong number, and Lise was none too happy with me. She continued improvising lyrics, berating me for my incompetence, through at least half the song, and nobody caught on that she had never even heard this song before. Apparently I had made an unforgivable mistake and needed to pay for it.

When we got up the next morning, I walked outside to a pleasant surprise. For the first time on the trip, which had been spent almost entirely on islands, I felt that quintessential island feel. The kind of vibe you get that tells you to walk slower. If you have ever been to islands off Caribbean Central America, you know exactly what I am talking about. You know that nothing will get done that day, but it does not matter in the slightest. You can sleep at work. Nobody cares, not even the customers. When we went out to find breakfast, we went to a bakery for breads and Mountain Dew. There were four people sitting outside around the couple of tables and a guy on his motorbike. Everyone was either sleeping or in a weird dormant stupor, even the people with empty Mountain Dew bottles in front of them. The woman operating the bakery didn’t even seem awake and it took a while to get her attention from whatever cave she was hiding in in the back. Lise got a piece of chocolate cake because she had had a dream that featured incredible chocolate cake. This, of course, could not compare to that of the manifestations of French person’s imagination.

When we finally pulled ourselves together to get moving, we had a small problem. As I said before, there is no public transport on these islands. Most people just hire motorbike taxis to get around. Sure the fares are not exorbitant, but they are considering what we would normally pay for a 10 km ride. It was still hard to believe that a couple of islands with 70,000 people between the two of them had no public transport. We decided to just walk in the direction we were going and hope for a hitchhike or perhaps a random jeepney. Within ten minutes we walked past an empty jeepney with a guy sitting in the drivers seat. We asked him if he was going to San Francisco or Tulan Baku, or anywhere at all. His English was rough, but he offered to take us the 12 km to Tulang Baku for about $12. We refused. Then he offered to take us to San Francisco, just a few km away for free. He was going there anyway. It was a start. San Francisco was actually on the other island, Pacijan, but a bridge that goes over something of a mangrove swamp connects the two islands. It was actually hard to even notice where one island became the other.

When we got dropped off, we just kept on walking. When we got out of town and onto the main road around the island, a young guy on a motorbike came up and offered us a ride. He wanted something that we deemed to much, so we just kept walking. We still figured we could hitchhike eventually, but he eventually lowered the price to something so low we figured it was worth it for our time. Then we realized that with my gigantic bag and Lise’s modest bag we would not all fit on the bike together and we would need two bikes. Five minutes later the guy showed up with a friend on a second bike. He said we could still go for the same price. We were surprised that he would agree to that price so easily, but we didn’t complain.

It was the first motorbike ride of the trip, and it was nice. Lise particularly enjoyed it. It is a cliché thing to say, but I really can relate to all that talk of the feelings of freedom that come from riding motorcycles, even though I was sitting on the back.

All along this trip, Lise and I had been toying with the idea of finding a deserted island, getting a bout out to it and just camping for a few days. I know it sounds to idealistic to be possible, but there probably isn’t a better place for this than the Philippines with some six or seven thousand islands. We knew that there was a tiny island called Tulang off shore of the island we were on, and we had heard that it is possible to hire a fishing boat to take you to snorkel in the waters off of it. We assumed that the island was too small to be inhabitable, so as long as there was some beach, we would be set with a comfortable place to hang out for a couple days.

We rounded a bend on the motorbikes, arriving to our destination village, and I could already see that the island had a pristine stretch of white sand. I could also see that it was very much inhabited. We were a little disappointed, but then again, finding a deserted island is rarely that easy. Regardless, we negotiated a fee of about a dollar for a boatmen to transport us across. It took about five minutes. We stepped off the boat into the shallow, turquoise water and onto the powdery white sand. The beach stretched back about 50 meters, where it met the quiet village. We didn’t see anybody around, so we ambled across the sand to a small shack that looked like it could serve as a shop if you caught the shopkeeper at the right time. We noticed a big gallon jug of tuba (coconut wine) and decided this might be a good way to introduce ourselves to the village. A drowsy woman idling in a nearby chair eventually took notice of us. We motioned that we would like to sample some of their finest grog. Eventually a young man emerged. He turned out to not having anything to do with his shop. He was just the nearest person who spoke some English. He was quiet and nervous at first, as he inquired what we were looking for. We knew it was an odd sight on this little island for foreigners to just show up out of nowhere and casually ask for a glass of coconut wine. But this is exactly what we were doing. He said the stuff at this shop was no good, but would take us somewhere else.

We walked a short distance along narrow sand paths through a neighborhood of bamboo and thatch huts until we arrived at another little shop. A couple of women were hanging out there, and one went inside to serve as the shopkeeper. Our friend, who had introduced himself as Martin, explained to her that we were looking for tuba and she brought us out two glasses of the dark brown liquid. We offered a glass to Martin, but he politely declined. He sat there quietly as we sipped from our cups. One of the women asked if we were hungry, and that when we were they could cook something for us. We weren’t hungry yet, but said we would come back later.

When we were finished, Martin said he would show us around the village. His English was improving rapidly and by now we were making casual conversation. We were pretty off the beaten track, but we still wondered if Martin’s self-appointment as our guide would turn into something we weren’t looking for (i.e. “now you need to pay me an exorbitant rate for being your guide…and my mom is dying and can’t afford her medications…and my little brother can’t afford school fees, etc.). Something about him, though, really seemed genuine, so we didn’t worry when our “tour” started going on and on. When we had seen the whole village and waved hello to everyone lounging in their hammocks or playing mahjong, Martin asked if we wanted to see the school. Sure, why not? Just outside the village, on a little hill, there was in fact a school, and a church. Then he asked if we wanted to see the…. And I don’t remember what the word was, but we did not understand it. I asked him to repeat it a couple times, but we had no idea what he wanted to show us. We asked him what that was, and he said “it’s over there, not far.” Ok, we thought, I guess we might as well walk just to find out what this word means. The small path led through a variety of gardens and small farms. He pointed out all the things that were being grown, saying the names in English, and then in the local language. Most of the words, though, where actually borrowed from Spanish. “Onion,” Martin would point out. “Cebolla.”

I was extremely impressed with how much they managed to grow on this tiny scrap of land. The only other island I have been on like this one produced almost nothing for itself. Little Corn Island, off Nicaragua, also had a population of about 500 and a similar size of land with a similar climate. I am sure there are many more variables than this, but they seemed to produce little more than coconuts on Little Corn. The major difference I could see, was that Little Corn Island relied mostly on tourism, while Tulang Island had to fend for itself.

The gardens all seemed productive, probably because they had rich, volcanic soil. They also had a wide variety of fruit trees. They also had pigs, chickens and I think I might have seen a cow or two. I was really inspired by the self-reliance of this island. It seemed that the only thing they needed to bring from outside was petrol and water. Yes, unfortunately there is not enough fresh water on this island to support the population, so a boat filled with plastic containers of water arrives every day to make a delivery. I don’t know what they were using to cook, but I did see some people collecting firewood in the bits of forest. I imagine that if they can cook over charcoal and not exhaust their small forest resources, it would be very impressive.

We had been walking for about thirty minutes by now, and I was wondering when we would be out of island. Then Martin offered to show us a cave. We walked off the path, through the forest and all of a sudden we were standing in front of the mouth of a huge cave. I could hear the squeaks of bats inside, but Martin insisted that there were no bats in there. I saw a huge spider dangling among some branches, so I suggested that we move back to the original mission.

The trail got narrower and rockier. Eventually it turned into just a path along jagged and porous volcanic rocks. I was glad my sandals were made from tire rubber, otherwise I was sure the stone would just slice right through. Finally, we emerged at a small clearing, and right in front of us stood a modest lighthouse, about 20 or 25 feet tall. Unfortunately we could not climb up, but from where we were standing we had a decent view of the expanse of ocean in front of us.

By the time we passed the school on the way back, it had let out and we were walking through flocks of adorable little kids practicing all their pre-set English phrases. Some of them only knew “what’s your name?” so they would just repeat that until we just stopped answering.

It had been a long walk, so Martin invited us to go to what he referred to as the “relax spot”. Basically we were down to follow him as much as he was willing to show us around. What else did we have planned for the day? We walked along another trail out of the village. It passed over some jagged volcanic rocks, and we soon arrived at a little bamboo and thatch cabana, which sat on a ledge overlooking the water. It was slightly elevated, so we could catch a nice breeze. We climbed onto the rickety bamboo floor and just…relaxed. It was quiet as the three of us sat calmly, leisurely taking in our surroundings. He said during high tide we could jump from the cabana into the water and climb back up the attached rope ladder.

The "Relax Spot"

By now we were hungry, so Martin took us to another little shop, where there was some food for sale. They only had one dish: adobo pork. It looked like some of the worst cuts of fat and skin, but we didn’t have much choice, so we ordered enough for both of us. We had offered to buy some for Martin, but again he declined. We went back to the shop where we had had tuba, and the woman there brought us huge piles of rice to have with our adobo. The pork turned out to be far better than it looked and the vinegary sauce was surprisingly flavorful. We tried to offer some money for the rice, but the woman refused.

We asked Martin if it was ok to camp on the beach that night. He said of course, and that many people actually sleep out on the beach because it is more comfortable and cooler than inside their homes and there are fewer mosquitoes. We knew that there was no electricity in the village, but knew that there must be at least one generator. We asked the obvious question: “Is there karaoke here?” Martin said there was one machine, but the generator for it is only turned on every once in a while. He offered to arrange it for us, but we figured it would be alright to take a night off.

We walked towards the beach and we noticed that they had a basketball court. So now it was official, this town could pass as being truly Filipino: they had the possibility of karaoke and basketball. And this was an impressive court, considering the circumstances. It had decent, smooth concrete, painted lines, and I think the hoops even had nets. There was a game going on when we passed by, and Martin asked if I wanted to play. I did, but was a little intimidated. It looked pretty intense. Then we walked past a beach volleyball game. Martin insisted that we join in. Lise wasn’t interested so she went to relax on the beach while we played.

The remainder of our evening was spent hanging out with Martin and all the kids on the beach. It was a pretty relaxing time, and although we had been looking for a deserted island, this still felt like paradise. After dark, the kids went home, while others came down to the beach to get ready for bed. We spread out my tarp and and laid down our sleeping bags. Sleeping under the stars is always a fine situation.

This was our evening: