I felt a little disoriented when I heard a knock on our door at 7 AM. It took a moment for me to remember that I was in a military barracks and that the night before had been so intense. I rolled out of bed, discovering that we were being summoned for breakfast.
Sergeant Jovie was a Seventh day Adventist, and therefore vegetarian. He seemed to be imposing his diet on his troops. He said that he only ate bananas and, I think, vegetables. Perhaps it was just bananas. The table outside the barracks by the river was set with a plate piled high with bananas and some scrambled eggs mixed with vegetables. The chief sat down with us and plowed through a mess of bananas while we ate. He said that there was an officer that would be passing by soon that could drop us off in the next town. Things were just getting better and better. First we got a free night’s stay, now we were getting free breakfast and a free ride to town. More importantly we had found out that there was a big festival in the city of Catbalogan, our destination. It was the “Samar Days Festival” (not the Summer Days Festival), and it was the biggest festival in the city all year.
The officer was a friendly chap and seemed to be glad to have company for the ride. He offered to help us find a place to stay. He took us to a hotel that we told him was out of our price range. We found out why he insisted on taking us there anyway: his wife is the receptionist and he wanted to say hello to her. We explained that we usually go for the cheapest place possible, so he found us a place that was cheaper than any place we knew of.
Although we were still exhausted, we felt the need to get into the town and see the festivities. We found the parade, and, well, it was a parade. High school marching bands, dancers in cultural costumes, and at least one mullet passed before crowds of spectators.
Later that day, while we were foraging for snacks at the festival, Lise, as usual, predicted that the rain was on the way. We found a place to sit in a covered area and within minutes, the city was getting drenched. It didn’t last long, so when it was finished, we continued our way around the crowded streets. The city of Catbalogan was unremarkable, but the people seemed different than in other places. For whatever reason, everyone reacted very strongly to our presence. It seemed as if most people had never seen a foreigner in town. In our 24 hours in the town, we didn’t see any other foreigners either. We got plenty of stares and it always seemed that people were pointing at us and talking about us. We were a little on edge anyway, so maybe we were creating feeling in our heads, although we were both noticing it. Suddenly it seemed that we didn’t feel like trusting anyone around us.
We couldn’t really get too into the festivities, for whatever reason. The live music seemed uninteresting, the food was just an assortment of various fried doughs and processed meats on sticks. At one point we tried to find a quiet place to sit away from the chaos, but found ourselves among a bunch of drunken teenagers giving us devious glances.
By evening we had had trouble getting into the groove of this big festival, and ended up at our usual spot: the karaoke bar. The crowd of mostly middle-aged men were a little too stone-faced for us to feel welcome, but we sat down, ordered our liter of Red Horse and grabbed the karaoke book anyway.
We cheered loudly for the singers we liked, and after Lise’s rendition of White Christmas, the crowd seemed to warm to us a little. When I sang my karaoke classic, “King of the Road”, and I got to the line, “I ain’t got no cigarettes,” there were several people that actually pulled cigarettes out and started waving them around for me. It turned into a pretty good karaoke night, although this middle aged crowd was definitely not matching our silliness. They sang the classics and some of them sang them well. One of the men, who had already made an impression with his quality voice, stood up to sing, and I was shocked at the song choice. There is an obscure social phenomenon in the Philippines known as “The My Way Killings”. Apparently in the last decade there have been a remarkable number of people that have been shot and killed some time in the night after singing Frank Sinatra’s “My Way”. The reasons, supposedly, have something to do with the machismo tone of the song rubbing other men the wrong way. Either that, or possibly that the victim has disgraced the popular song by singing it so poorly. Whatever the reason, many karaoke bars have banned the singing of the song. Apparently, though, this bar didn’t get the memo and this older gentleman with the smooth voice was diving into the most feared karaoke song in Asia. I am not a huge fan of the song itself, but this guy could croon. He received a big applause, and, as long as we were there, no bullets.
By this time in our trip, we had to set our sights on Manila. Our visa was wearing thin and we still had a long way to the capital. The day after the festival, I was feeling feverish and achy, but we moved on anyway. We weren’t able to get a bus to the next town, Calbayog, until the afternoon. We had wanted to get all the way to Allen, on the northern tip of the island, but we were too slow.
We arrived in Calbayog in a downpour just as the sun was setting. Lise fixed her trash bag onto her backpack for protection and I strapped my tarp around my pack with bungee cords. We set off looking for a place to stay. A few people pointed us in different directions with suggestions for cheap hotels. They usually assumed that our definition of “cheap” was a lot different than theirs, and we would find ourselves at the step of modern and clean hotels that were out of our budget. We found a place that was about $12 for a double. It was more than we would like to pay, so Lise waited there with the packs while I ventured around town in search of something cheaper. Thirty minutes later, I came back empty-handed and we settled for this place after negotiating the price down to $10.
Calbayog was about as uninspiring as it could get in the Philippines. A town too big for any of the rural charms, but too small for anything too interesting. There were plenty of food stalls serving burgers, fried chicken, and fried other things. The fried chicken looked good but was surprisingly expensive. We found one stall that had cheaper drumsticks then all the rest. We bought a couple, but after a couple bites, I realized why these “drumsticks” were so cheap: they were fried chicken necks. Not much meat, just a lot of fried batter, gristle and cartilage.
We explored the town and found ourselves crossing a bridge leading away from the town over a filthy river. We heard the telltale moans of nearby karaoke. The main part of town didn’t seem to have much nightlife, so we continued across the bridge toward a couple of dim lights at the edge of a dark alley. The alley was damp and dark figures lurked in the shadows. Even I was wondering if this would be a worthy place to sit down for a beer. When we were within sight of the people in the alley, we were waved in, so we scooted in. There was a tiny turo turo café with empty food pans. A young girl looked at us nervously and we asked if they had beer. She went and got us a big bottle of Red Horse. A young guy, presumably the girl’s brother was hanging out and watching TV. He was slender and wearing clothes that were just this side of women’s clothing. He moved very flamboyantly and when he came to have small talk with us, his demeanor reminded me of the lady boys from Camiguin. Within a few minutes, he was joined by a friend with a beer. As they shared the beer, I noticed that these two young men could not have looked more different. The friend had tattoos all over his arm, a goatee, sunglasses and a tank top. He made the other guy look downright dainty. I was judging them based on appearances, but it made me want to know more about their friendship. They seemed so interesting.
Before long we found ourselves next door in one of the most ramshackle karaoke pubs we had seen. The karaoke machine was in a pretty sorry state. The screen was black and white, the speakers crackled and the mic had a bad connection, leaving your voice cutting in and out if you didn’t handle the cord correctly. The bathroom (which should have taken the British term Water Closet, as it was pretty much a closet with a hole in the ground) was right next to the karaoke machine, and the door did not lock or latch and had a couple of holes in it. The few tables were crowded into the tiny space and the rowdy yelling occasionally drowned out the singers. It was all worth it, though, when our effeminate friend from the café next door stood up to perform. When he opened his mouth to sing “You’re Just Too Good to be True”, Lise and I were both shocked. He had a strong, deep voice, with which he gave a commanding performance. Everyone there loved it. I admired the fact that the macho, tough guys in the joint could cheer for their queer friend giving a great performance. He was probably the best karaoke singer I had heard in the Philippines. I am certain that he needs to get out of Calbayog and find the nearest audition for Filipino Idol ASAP.
The next morning my fever and muscle aches were back with a vengeance. I wanted to brush it off, but Lise insisted that I should get tested for malaria, since I was experiencing two of the main symptoms. We found the local hospital, and said I wanted to get tested for malaria and they said I would have to wait until Monday (it was Saturday), because I would have to buy a test at the pharmacy, which was closed for the weekend. So that was it; we would head straight for Manila. From Calbayog that would be 16 hours by jeepney, boat and bus, not including wait times. We walked out of town to the bus station, and found the first jeepney leaving to go north. It took a while for it to fill, but when it did, we decided we preferred to be riding on the top. As expected, this was far better. We had fabulous views, natural A/C and more leg room. It was the way the Gods are meant to travel.
We got to the port in Allen in the late afternoon and my fever was completely gone. The rooftop ride seemed to have been a perfect remedy. The port area was littered with behemoth modern buses. Various men tried to coax us to their vehicles, so we took a quick tour to see what our options were. All the buses seemed about the same, as did the prices. We chose one of the buses that had a sign in the window reading “Free Meal”. Of course, we didn’t expect much, but we figured it would be a nice bonus.
We were all waiting for the ferry, and nobody seemed to know when it might leave. The wait was only an hour and as we waited aboard the boat, we hung out on the rails and watched as kids on the docks below dove into the water for coins that the passengers were throwing to them. Much later, I would find out that these children belong to a unique Muslim community that can be found in port towns throughout the Philippines. They live on the fringes of society and are most known for their showmanship at ports with their diving abilities.
We reached the island of Luzon by evening, and loaded into our bus to head north for another 12 hours to Manila. Not long after getting into the gratuitously air conditioned bus, I started feeling worse. The fever was creeping back as were the muscle aches. By 2 AM I was wearing my jacket, my only piece of warm clothing, and fully immersed in my sleeping bag with the drawstring cinched. I was feeling awful and the bumpy ride and A/C wasn’t helping. I was almost certain at this point that I had had malaria. I felt like Jonathan had looked when I had seen him with it months before. I also followed the same pattern of having it come on slowly, seem to leave, and then attack with full force. I was fully committed to Lise’s plan of getting right to a hospital as soon as we reached Manila, even if that meant taking a taxi.
At 3 AM I was in a groggy state when the bus stopped. I couldn’t sleep, but I wasn’t fully aware either. Somebody was making confusing motions at us from the front of the bus. Lise went to investigate. When she got back, she handed me a small packet of crackers and a very artificial cup of orange juice in a pudding cup type of container. I was confused and asked her what this was. She was obviously annoyed as she explained that this was our “free meal”. As much pain as I was in, I couldn’t help but laugh. I wasn’t in any condition to eat anything anyway.
Our early morning arrival to the mega city of Manila was less than momentous. In fact, for all that we had heard of the size, the congestion, the crowds, the hustlers, etc., it seemed pretty mild by world standards. However , this could easily be because of the particular part of town we landed in, but it still did not overwhelm us like we had expected. We didn’t have to fight too hard to get into a taxi with a meter and get to the only hospital we knew the name of.
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