Hello Negros.

I had left you, dear reader, on my last night on Boracay, sleeping in my friends bar due to lack of a bed and jumping off the next morning for who knows where.  Actually, I did know where.  When "planning" this trip, and I use the term loosely, I had absolutely no idea where I was going to go after Boracay.  I knew I wasn't going to go South to Mindanao as that is not a safe place at present.  I have just heard of another Australian being kidnapped and apparently they have set the ransom at $US 2 million.  Well, nobody is going to pay that kind of money for me and there is only so much rice and fish I can eat, so I'll give it a swerve.  I was bound for the wonderful island o Negros, where I still find myself today, having become somewhat marooned on a sea of travelling inertia, enjoying a wonderful and somewhat interesting lifestyle.  I shall regale you with stories of playing gigs, riding with "outlaw" bike clubs, the small matter of a 6.9 earthquake and much more besides, but all in good time.

The photo above shows my parting glimpse of Boracay, and I was sad to leave but it was a little touristy and I wanted to see new places.  I had had a great time there with the VT gang and I may well go back some time but time to go.  The VT reference leads on to where I was going.  Even before I had left UK, I had corresponded a fair amount with a VT member called Buena (VT name buenababe if you want to look her up) who was a great source of information and seemed very pleasant.  I know she may read this and I don't want to embarrass her but she is an absolute star and I am glad to have her as a friend.  Having heard of my lack of direction, both general and specific, she suggested the island of Negros was worth looking at, and specifically her home town of Bacolod.  Well, it was as good a plan as any other.

Off the banqua and onto a bus, a Ceres Liner.  Ceres are the main bus company here and they drive big yellow buses.  They are to be feared.  There is a joke that Ceres drivers are taught that if they run over someone, they should reverse to finish the job as it involves less writing and hospital costs for the company.  Well, I think it is a story but having seen them drive, I am not sure.  Have a look at the inside of the bus.  Four seats in a row are not nearly enough, so they distribute little plastic kiddie seats for people to sit in the aisle.  This is fairly standard practice throughout Southeast Asia.

A seven hour journey took me to the Souther port town of Iloilo, and try pronouncing that one!  It would have been a lot quicker but the buses stop everywhere.  There is no concept of bus stops except in the major towns where the stations is the place and people can flag down what is effectively an intercity coach wherever they want.  Here is what one of the murderous beasts looks like.

Eventually, we got to Iloilo and the bus sttion, as usual, is three days bloody camel ride from anywhere.  I am actually convinced that the siting of bus stations is controlled by the taxi / trishaw / pedicab / jeepney etc, mafias, and this is the same all over Southeast Asia.  In the absence of a local bus system, they have a captive market.  Iloilo bus station is about 6 km. from the centre.

Naturally, the drivers scented blood and swarmed about me like they usually do.  The long nse (as they call us here) means easy money and a ripoff.  The first two quoted me ridiculous amounts and were politely told where to go.  A third driver quoted a sensible price but explained in barely comprehensible English that I would have to share with two ladies whom he indicated.  No problem, I can do that.  Ten minutes were wasted whilst he tethered all our luggage to the roof with a grotty bit of twine evidently salvaged off a fishing boat.  This was totally unecessary as there was ample room for it inside.  The ladies naturally sat in the cab and I was on the rear seat, facing backwards.  Not too much headroom but not too bad.  Well, not too bad until he took off anyway.  My God, it was terrifying.  It is scary enough looking forward at where one of these phsycopaths is driving but doing it backwards is a scene from Hell.  Why do you think some of the scariest rollercoasters go backwards or in the dark.  I was hanging on for dear life but managed to snap this one image.

As you see, we are barrelling down what is meant to be the hard shoulder, strewn with parked vehicles, with the distinct possibility that anoy of the vehicles could turn left and wipe us out at any point.  A tortuous route later we arrived at a shopping centre.  Silly me, I thought that the ladies were also going to the ferry port.  Wrong.  They were going to get a shuttle bus to the airport at completely the other end of town.  Brilliant, bloody brilliant.  The last ferry goes at 1700 and irt is now gone 1600.  Another five minutes to untie the baggage and then he wheels it for the ladies into the place (obviously in search of a tip).  Back he comes, and insists on tying my one small bag on the roof again.  In the name of all that is holy, why?  There was more than enough room inside.

Indicating my watch, he shrugged and took off.  If the first half of the journey was scary, this was positively suicidal.  He clipped his wing mirror twice and never even thought about stopping.  Utter lunacy.  Somehw or another he managed to get me to the ferryport and I got my ticket etc., went through the very rigorous security and onto the boat, shown in the picture above.

Now imagine the scene.  I have been texting Buena (yes, I know, people that know me, I can actually text now!) and she had insisted on picking me up from Bacolod ferryport and had indicated we were going straight to dinner.  Well, four hours kip, ten hours on bus and sea in stinking hot conditions and the trishaw ride from Hell with all the heat and dust left me marginally short of my fragrant best.  Into the heads as I believe they are called on boats.  The thing is pitching and tossing on a fairly choppy sea and the stripwash and change of clothes was quite an operation but I managed it.

Buena, fellow VT member Gregg (Canadian guy and a really nice bloke) and Buena's mate Kenny turned up in Kenny's pickup and off we go.  We arrive at a strip of restaurants on a quiet little road and go into one.  Sure, table reserved for eight as we had more friends coming.  Great.  First thing Buena says is, "Come on, we are going to the market."  OK, so she has forgotten to buy something that day and we are not all assembled yet.  Wrong.  The next portion is a cut and paste from my VT pages as I am not going to sit and retype it.

"A two minute walk brought us to a very good fish market, which I shall deal with in a seperate tip, and she started to load up on "fruits de mer" like I have never seen. Scallops, various fish, huge prawns, minced crab meat, it was all there and I am sure I have forgotten something. As she did, she explained the principle to me. You go to market, buy what you like and the restaurant charges for cooking to your requirments and presumably making a few pesos on the drinks.  Here it is in the raw state.











I think I am right in saying that this is what the word tulahan means as all the restaurants on the strip were X,Y and Z Tulahan. I stand to be corrected if this turns out to be the area name!

The food was deposited with the chef and we sat down for a bit of conversation. This place was popular and I was glad we had the reservation. In contrast, many of the other places seemed nearly empty. I am a great believer in local knowledge and these guys really knew what they were about in picking this place.

The food began to arrive and it was truly fit for a king, brought out at reasonable intervals, but there was just so much of it. Unfortunately, the five photo rule on tips does not allow me to show you all the dishes but we feasted on the most succulent grilled prawns in sauce, minced crabmeat with a few bits and pieces mixed through and grilled scallops which were cooked to perfection. Next up was a soup particular to the Philippines which features large lumps of fish in a broth which is flavoured with a slightly sour local ingredent, the name of which I cannot now remember. Gregg wasn't so sure but I really liked it. A couple of huge tuna steaks done in a local sauce with a few onions completed the meal.

I cannot stress again how good the food was and I am guessing at prices and comparative expensiveness as Buena embarrassingly insisted on paying for all of it, so do not take these figures as accurate, I have picked the median in each case as I genuinely do not have a clue. Asking would have been hugely impolite, even from another VT member who writes tips! Also remember that you provide your own ingredients which further complicates the issue.

If you are not fortunate enough to have Philippino friends, do not be put off. I spoke to a Croatian guy who had heard about the place, asked where the market was, came back with some produce and was happily tucking in as we left."

Read more: http://members.virtualtourist.com/m/p/m/21b914/#ixzz1nZnYyzs3

Here are a few pics to give you an idea of the finished article.

 Trust me, it was every bit as good as it looks.

Tired and replete, I could have done with a sleep but the night was not yet over.  However, we have already had one power cut today so I will save this and continue shortly.  I don't want to lose 90 minutes work.  Yes, that is how long it takes me to keep you up to speed on my progress.  I just hope someone is reading it.  Please drop me a small comment if you are.

End of the meet and start of the solo wandering.

Firstly, the photograph above is nothing to do with the text, it is just to show you one of the glorious sunsets on Boracay, they really are stunning. Don't you wish you were here?

I left you last time with us having had a great day on the paraws and on the beach and we had gone home to prepare for the last evening meet in the Astoria Hotel right on the beach, a lovely place.

We had a great meet up and said a lot of fond farewells but not before something happened that will probably have scarred several Philippino musicians for life. Allow me to explain.

A few of the VT members knew that I knocked out a few chords on a guitar and made a bit of a racket vocally, so you have probably guessed what is coming next. There was an excellent Philippino band playing. Actually, that is probably a bit of a tautology, as all Philippino musicians are excellent. I really cannot peak highly enough about the technical standard, indeed I know that many of the cabaret bands in the resorts of Thailand are Philippino.

Anyway, the inevitable happened and I was rather reluctantly propelled onstage. The first problem was musical communication. In UK we use the "key of A, B minor, G" or whatever system. I am not sure what they use here, possibly the do ray me system so beloved of Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. Still, no problem, there rarely is with these guys. Song title and a mime of the first couple of chords and the job was done.

Second problem was that the guitar I borrowed was an electric which I virtually never play and requires a slightly different technique but I took a deep breath and launched into "Knocking on Heaven's Door", which is a great song for audience participation. I know as I once had a bunch or drunken Polish students in Nowy Sacz singing it for about 40 minutes!

There is something rather magical about playing barefoot, well it was a beach bar after all. The rythmn section were watertight, the keysman took a great solo and it was a joy to play with them. Gratefully, I walked offstage to rather over-generous applause I thought. Job done. Not a chance. I was propelled back on for an encore and, I am glad to say, the band did not look as horrified as they should have done.

I swear I had no idea what I was going to play as I never do and never use a setlist, it is better like that. I do not know why my fingers started a D / C / G riff that is one of the most famous in rock music but it appeared that the Muses or more likely St. Jude (patron Saint of lost causes) had decreed Sweet Home Alabama by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Well, it went a bit mad then. All the VTer's were up dancing, as indeed were many of the other patrons, the band really went for it and there was lots of onstage interaction (nods, solos etc.). I must admit I did make a bit of a tit of myself, headbanging with the bass player, standing on the drum riser and chopping with the keysman etc. 52 years of age is too old for acting the Sammy Hagar but it was great fun. We jammed it for a good while with a big finish (always finish on a big 7th as Red Dave Lear taught me) and I left to more unwarranted applause, although it was probably for the band. Requests for another encore were politely refused. Always quit while you're ahead.

Obviously, I don't have photos myself as I was otherwise engaged but I have seen video footage online and it is toe-curlingly embarrassing, positively cringe making. For that reason, I don't intend to tell you where it is!

I had booked another couple of days in the hostel after the meet which I spent chilling, exploring the town (there isn't much of it) and the beach. I spent evenings in the Red Pirate and even slep there one night when I couldn't be bothered walking all the way back to Station 1 to my own place. It really is rather comfortable there and with less snoring than in the dorm. Because it is a beach bar, they cannot lock it up so two of the staff sleep there at night to prevent theft. Well, there are three cushioned bench seats so Jen was more than happy for another body guarding the place. I would be awoken in the morning when the day staff arrived and given a cup of coffee. Happy times indeed. I do rather like waking up in a place where the floor is made of sand.


There are other attractions too. Jen is a great catlover and I made a new friend. This little one is called Magic and he really is. He is a lucky kitten too as he was found by an expat as an infant, obviously abandoned and brought to Jen who bottle reared him on, of all things, mixed up coffee creamer. Fresh milk is almost impossible to find here, especially on Boracay.

If I stayed here, I would head off in the morning and have a shower, change and have breakfast before heading out for the day. The next image is interesting as it shows a fairly typical backpackers breakfast. They see no oddity in serving eggs, bacon and toast on the same plate as mango. I suppose it is the same as Americans having bacon and eggs with blueberry muffins which I found odd in L.A. Bloody delicious though.


Of course Jen had seen my attempts at music in the Astoria and so she persuaded me to come and join in the regular jam sessions with two superb guitarists called Randy and Lenver. Lenver is the one you see here. He is only about 22 or 23 and is such an accomplished lead guitarist you would not believe, just nod him a solo and he is away. Seriously, the guy would not be out of place in any top level cabaret band in Europe. I happen to know what he gets paid a night, and I am not going to relate it here obviously. It is commensurate with local wages, slightly better than a barman for example, but it is still a pittance. It was humbling to play with him. As for Randy, he was more than happy to lend me his box as he could go and chat to women! Note the advanced beach bum dress code, shoes never happened and shirts were an optional extra, depending on the heat. It was warm playing there.



Here we are getting it on in grand style. There was another strange thing. In the Phils, you have the PNP, the national police, and then you have the Borangay police. Borangay really means district and these guys have limited powers, they are more like Council wardens in the UK.
Have a look at the guy playing the drum, he is a Borangay policeman, and actually on duty at this point with a shedload of rum in him. Brilliant. Jen says he cuffs people on demand, so we decided to have a bit of a laugh.



Pretty cool cop, eh? He was a really nice guy.


And here we are , two hardened criminals. We did get released shortly afterwards though.

I need to jump slightly back here, though. These photos were taken on my last night on Boracay and I had a slight problem in that I had nowhere to stay. This was not because I had been kicked out or anything but merely because Reinhard, the wonderful owner of the Frendz hostel, was fully booked that night. I was now on a day to day basis for sleeping and travelling, just the way I like it. I was jumping off for my next destination early in the morning so I asked Jen if I could crash in the bar that night. The lovely lady agreed readily so that was my bed sorted.

Now Reinhard had told me that he had a guy coming in to play in the hostel that night and asked if I would play for a few beers, to which I readily agreed. The last night ran something like this. Played about an hour set in the hostel for a totally backpacker crowd which went down really well, it was a nice guitar which is unusual here. I did all the usual troubadour stuff which I thought might not have gone with a young audience but it was great.

After that, I gathered up my wordly goods and possessions and re-negotiated the building site, semi-lit lane and then jumped a trike. Off to the Pirates again and almost straight back into the chair. I really wish I could get two gigs a night in London, it is hard enough to get two a month in the current climate.

We played until nearly three for a good crowd, then Jen and I sat and chatted till about half four and so to bed, well bar seat. Just another nutty day in paradise, going with the breeze!

I'll let you know where I went in the next post, I have been deliberately not mentioning it.

Friday the 13th - Argggggggghhhhhhh.

Friday the 13th dawned and I was up bright and early and wondering was it really an auspicious day to be flying in a country where the domestic aviation safety record is marginally less than brilliant. After a torturously slow journey through the appalling Manila traffice, I finally arrived at one of the four terminals at NAIA, noe of which are remotely close to each other. Transit here must be a nightmare. Unfortunately, I had no option as the VT meeting was starting that evening and overland / ferry was a non - starter. Security, like everywhere in the Phils is extremely tight, I think they are worried about the guys from the South (Mindanao) kicking off again. Zest Air were late, they always are but it wouldn't have mattered if I had booked with Cebu Pacific as they were also late, they always are as well. Here is the Chariot of Icarus that took me to Kalibo in about one hour on a slightly bumpy flight.



Internal flights are pretty cheap, it only cost me about £30 for the hour flight and I suppose I was lucky as at least I got to the right airport. There are two airports on Panay, Kalibo and Caticlan. Panay island is the jumping off point for Boracay as it is too small to have an airport. Zest and Cebu are known for lumping two flights passengers on one plane if they are underbooked and flying to whichever airport they feel like. Actually, that would have suited me as Kalibo is the further and that was the only flight I could get. The baggage reclaim was carnage. It is literally about 15 yards long, three flights had landed and it was the weekend of the Ati Atihan festival, the largest festival in Panay and one of the biggest in the country.

90 minutes on the bus passed pleasantly in cmpany of an Irish guy and his Filipina wife I had met in the airport. Naturally, we did the decent thing and cracked a couple of cans of San Mig. Up to Caticlan and onto the pumpboat for Boracay. I read that one of them capsized last week with a bunch of Americans onboard but the Coastguard fished everyone out OK. Not so sure in the dark though. We arrived on the island and I caught a trike to my hostel, Frendz, well, at a sign forFrendz stuck on the side of the main road. The driver indicated a pretty dark unpaved track and said it was down there to the right. OK, not entirely sure about this but I heard Boracay was pretty safe so off I went. The lane ends abruptly so I followed the directions, calmbered with my kitbag over a small wall into a building site. Interesting but ultimately correct as I eventually stumbled into the Frendz compound.

Frendz is exactly what I expected from a backpackers hostel, lots of bamboo huts, communal area with a bar, constant music (generally the obligatory and ubiquitous Bob Marley who surely must be the most played artist in the world), Western food menu communal showers etc. and it was great. I was in a dorm with five other blokes, all long haired, tattooed, baggy native trousered suntanned types. I would suggest I was older than any two of them put together but they were all cool with the geriatric in their midst probably because I didn't complain when they would stumble in blind drunk about six in the morning, trip over something and promptly fall asleep where they fell.


This is a photo of the communal area. I didn't take one of the dorm as I realise this is an open blog and persons of a sensitive disposition do not need to see that particular disaster zone. I'll tell you more about the hostel later. The VT crowd had arranged to meet in the Red Pirate bar which is actually owned by VT member Jen (her VT name is sirenna for those of you that use the site) and her Filipino boyfriend Joey and it is a great place, proper little bamboo beach bar with a garden area right on the beach, it truly is idyllic.


Here is a picture taken at a different time and more about the comatose bod lying there later. It wasn't too mad a night as we all had to be up pretty early in the morning to go to the Ati Atihan festival, so off to bed.

Well, it was always going to happen as it does on every trip, but it certainly picked it's moment. I spent a pretty sleepless night with appallingly bad guts about which I shall spare you the details but even Loperimide wasn't efficacious against it. Needless to say I didn't fancy a trike / boat / 90 minute bus ride in either direction, so sadly I had to cry off which really irked me as I had been looking forward to it. It happens, as they say, and it is just a fact of life on the road. I stayed in bed all Saturday and dosed myself on rehydration salts, nothing else for it. Felt a little better in the evenng and headed out to meet the guys in the Pirate again. They showed me their photos and videos and the festival looked amazing. Maybe next year.

Another early bed and rose the next morning feelinbg much better and revved up for the day's activity, a boat trip up the coast in the outrigger boats called paraw. We were split up into crews and off we went. It is a bit of an odd sensation at first if you are sitting on the mesh on the outrigger, as you think it won't hold you but it does. there is only room on the boat proper for the three man crew. This is Joey whom I mentioned and who is reckoned to be one of the best skippers on the island. He regularly wins the annual round the island race.


As you can see, he is a bit of a hippy and a really nice bloke. There was some chat that a few of us might go on an inter-island jaunt sometime soon. I hope it happens.

We arrived at a beautiful white sand beach which we had all to ourselves and armed with the appropriate supplies, as you can see.


If you had told me previously that golden rum and pineapple juice was even drinkable I would have said you were mad but live and learn. Perhaps it was a thing of time and place as I haven't tried it since.

Just to let you know and make my European readers green with envy, a bottle of decent rum (not the deisel the locals drink) costs about £2 (€2:30).

Just a few more pics to give you a flavour of the day.


This is the Red Pirate beached at our landing spot. A fine craft and you cannot miss her as she is the only red paraw on the island. Bizarrely, the authrities want to have it painted white like all the others. Talk about petty beaureaucracy.


Philippinos just love to pose for the camera and our VT mob are no exception so here are a few of them. It's a hard old life I am having here, isn't it?


In a different category of loveliness, here is my mate Hansi catching some rays. I mentioned hm in an earlier post, he really is the most laid-back traveller I know. 66 (he won't mind me saying that) and still on the road with his charming wife Lori. At time of writing I believe they are in Spain having fun. I really hope I am still doing it at that age.


This is the beach we had with the VT folks chilling out.


Now that's what I call a figurehead! I told you, it's a hard life here.


This is what a paraw looks like under sail. Joey had decided on a fast run back so Stacey and I were deputed to act as weights or whatever you call it. Basically we had to stand up on the outrigger and hang out to balnce the craft. The trick is to keep both outriggers just skimming the surface for minimum drag. It is great fun and very exhilerating. Shirt off and the sun on my back, it was a magical run. Stacey is the sleeping body you saw in the earlier picture. He is a great guy. He is from the US and works as a civilian contractor in Afghanistan. He spends three months in a camp somewhere getting mortared etc. and the next three getting blasted on Boracay. Interesting lifestyle, hope we can meet up again. Here he is before we got on the rigger being like some lunatic pirate King.


We arrived back at the pirates all too soon, and went our seperate ways to prepare for the evening when the final event of the VT meet was to take place.

More of that in the next post.