A cautionary tale.

Read below for an explanation.

 Well folks, it is early in the morning and I have girded my loins, so standby for the horror story that is to unfold.

You would not think that transporting yourself and a very small motorcycle on a 90 minute journey between two parts of the same country would be so difficult.  For UK readers, imagine the Portsmouth / Isle of Wight ferry, for example.  Not too difficult, right?  Wrong, very, very wrong.  You are not thinking the Philippino way.  OK, it is probably my own fault for not doing the research.  I know there are many RoRo (roll on roll off) ferries in the Philippines and I stupidly thought that I could get one to Siquijor.  Far too simple. 

I turned up at the gate of the ferry port, and the heavily armed guard told me I had to go to the other gate despite the fact that numerous locals were driving unhindered through it.  I could see the ticket office but had to take a mile or so detour to the other gate.  Twelve pesos or something (a few pence) port tax.  No problem.  I was then "assigned" a porter, properly accredited as shown by his officially numbered T-shirt and badge.  Follow me in international sign language, so I did, to the ticket office where another heavily armed guard extracted another few pesos off me for another ticket.  This was not a ripoff as they were for different amounts and I received proper receipts so I can only assume one was for me and the other for the vehicle.

I had just missed the 1000 ferry so booked myself onto the 1200, 350pesos for myself and my trusty steed who I have not named yet.  Suggestions in the comments section please.  I had thought about Suzi as it is a Suzuki but I am open to suggestions.  In fact, that may be my problem, I am far too open to suggestions, it leads me into no end of adventures.  Back to the now totally disjointed narrative.

My appointed guide / porter then took me off to the window of a largish office block on the quayside, demanding more money.  What for?  You will love this.  Customs clearance.  Again, this is not a ripoff and I shall explain the lead photo here.  This is just a selection of the paperwork required to undertake this short journey between two parts of the same country.  I had to surrender some of the receipts at the far end and similar on the return.  The bike is properly registered and totally road legal, which is more than you can say for most bikes hereabouts.  Imagine requiring customs clearance to go from London to Bristol and you get the idea.  It is completely insane not to mention a huge disincentive to the expats / tourists who basically keep Dumaguete going.

After a long wait in the hot sun, another guy approached me and pointed to a speck on the horizon coming from the direction of Siquijor.  That was my boat, he informed me.  Great stuff, it might even be on time, in itself something of a bonus here.  It got closer and closer, obviously making good speed and as my aged old eyes managed to focus on it, I began to have some misgivings.  It was obvioisly a banqua which I won't try to explain but show you here.

Banqua, Dumaguete.

I know my readers are both intelligent people so I will let you gess what I was thinking.  How the Hell am I going to ride even a small bike onto that?  I am reasonably proficient on a bike and used to ride trials bikes (non-competitively) as a youngster, but this seemed a little too much.  Flying ramp leap onto the foredeck perhaps, braking hard before I smashed my skull on the superstructure?  Not a good option.  All was explained as Mr. Helpful the guide summoned a few of his mates to perform this operation.

Money for nothing (chicks for free not included).

That'll be another 300 pesos, thank you very much.  Now, 300 pesos is only about £5 in my currency ($7US or thereabouts for non UK readers) but put it in context.  I know that waitresses, even in the more upmarket bars, earn between 125 and 150 a day.  Cut 300 between these three guys and they have made damn nearly a days wages for 10 minutes work.

In fairness, they did not scratch it and between them and the boat crew stowed it very securely midships.  I was later told by bikers here that taking a machine on this boat is madness.  Thanks for the advance warning guys!

Thye boat is pretty cramped, smells of diesel, wallows about like a beached whale but that is all OK.  What is decidedly not OK is the garbage soft rock played at ridiculous volume through the crappiest tinny speakers in the world.  I swear, if I ever meet Celine Dion I will strangle her as a matter of principle.  I'm sure she is a lovely woman but I HAVE HAD ENOUGH BLOODY SOFT ROCK BALLADS.  In this instance the caps were intentional, not just my typographical ineptitude.  This is what the boat looks like inside.  Be grateful there is no soundtrack facility on my blog.

Siquijor ferry.

The orange things draped over the back of the seats are not actually pillows, which everyone uses them for, but lifejackets which I believe you are required to wear on these boats by law.  Frankly, having seen, poked and prodded them, I think they are more effective as pillows.

We arrived at Siquijor port without mishap and the same performance in reverse.  Porters rubbing their hands in obvious glee at the stupid longnose with his precious bike.  Only 200 pesos this time.  Perhaps things are cheaper on Siquijor, although I didn't find it so.  It transpired the customs documents were actually legit as they checked them (and obviously charged me another port fee) on the way off the jetty.

Just to jump ahead slightly, I had exactly the same procedure on the way back although my customs clearance was good for a return trip so that saved a few pesos.  I did have an interesting run-in with the Customs officer on Siquijor pier though.  The porter took me to the Customs office and indicated I had to present my papers before they could load the bike.  I went to the office, knocked politely on the door and waited.  All I could see was a guy in uniform and obviously in need of a personal trainer lying flat on his back on a bed watching American college basketball.  "Excuse me, I have my papers to go to Dumaguete".  He never tok his eyes off the screen, waved a cursory hand at me and I departed, my papers evidently in order and rigorously scrutinsed.  I will leave you with an image of the notice outside "Slims" office.  Probably the biggest joke since the Parliamentary enquiry into Dr. Kelly's death.

These are the rules.  Feel free to ignore them.

So there I was, on the island of Siquijor, Isla del Fuego, the land of witches and I was rearing to go.  I'll deal with that in the next post.

Buena comes to town.

Fergy and "the girls".

You know I like to throw the odd little vignette into my posts as well as the more prosaic stuff so try this image for size.  The four of us pictured here could legitimately compete in a mixed doubles tennis match.  Think about it.  I hesitate to use the word men but there are certainly two males pictured here.  I'll give you a clue, I am one of them and the beard is the giveaway there.  Look closely and I'll post the answer at the bottom of the post.


In my haste to rush off the party whilst writing my last "proper" entry, I omitted the last part of the story and the next part will make little sense without it.  A couple of days previously I had sent Buena, my dear friend from Bacolod, a text asking if she fancied popping down to Dumaguete for the weekend.  Bearing in mind the length of the journey, I didn't really think she would be up for it but, inveterate traveller that she is, she accepted.  The plan was that she would work on the Friday, go straight to the bus station and get here about midnight or one a.m. depending which bus she caught.

After Kojak's party had wound down a little, a few of us decided it might be a good idea to go down to the Boulevard and carry on.  The Boulevard is the promenade along the seafront and is where most of the restaurants and bars are located.  Picture then the scene.  Buena arrives to find your humble narrator in company with a bunch of proper bikers in full colours and not only that but as luck would have it Joey and I were bellowing out Jethro Tull's Aqualung to accompany the background music just as she hopped out of the trike.  The look on the poor girls face was absolutely priceless.  Remember this is a well brought up, intelligent woman with two degrees and a lifestyle which, to the best of my knowledge, doesn't include gangs of hairy a**ed bikers and yours truly slaughtering rock songs from the last century.  I assured her that all was well, introduced her to the guys who were all perfectly charming (it's amazing the misconceptions people have sometimes) and we had a great night, although I think Buena was still a little hesitant.

A few more beers and we jumped onto a trike and off to Mac's where I had sorted a spare cabin for her.  The trike provided yet another example of the way things work here.  I am regularly quoted a 300 peso fare from the Boulevard home and normally get it down to 200 but with Buena doing the talking it was 150 straight off.  It is understandable but it still grates a little the way "long noses" are always being taken for a ride, metaphorically as well as literally in this case.

After a good night's sleep, I asked Buena what she fancied doing.  She had spent a little time here during her nursing training and she loves Dumaguete.  I know how she feels.  We decided a trip "up the mountain" might be in order so we mounted my trusty steed and headed off up towards Valencia.  Thankfully the weather was good although not overly hot which was fortuntate as it turned out.  We went up to Valencia on the slightly beaten up road.  I suggested a coffee and I had the great pleasure of taking my Filipina friend to a little place I knew from previously where they recognised me and greeted me in the usual friendly manner.  It was a thrill to take a native Negros resident to places in her own country where I was better known than her.  After that we went for a walk round town and I pointed out a few things of interest to Buena.  At one point she made a joke that I should think of becoming a tour guide which rather pleased me.  I know she will probably not thank me for using this image which was taken when she wasn't expecting it, but I rather like it.

My friend Buena.

We took of up the road to where Casaroro Falls and the Japanese memorial shrine are.  I had previously scoped the place and knew the road to the shrine was impassable but I knew the road to the Falls was still there although very difficult for a road bike.  Oh, for an XR200, I should have borrowed my mate's as it would have been ideal.  I cannot remember if I have mentioned it before but about a month before I got here there was a fairly serious typhoon and associated flooding which has wreaked complete havoc in parts of Negros Oriental specifically to the infrastructure.

This is me standing on what had been the concrete road bridge which leads to the shrine.  As you can see, there isn't much left.  We debated walking up but Buena spoke to a local guy carrying an unfeasible looad on a headstrap and he told us it was a two hour walk there so we didn't have the time before nightfall.

Fergy on a washed out bridge.

If you are wondering why I am holding what appears to be a handkerchief in this image, it is actually a Virtual Toruist flag.  For those of you who may have stumbled upon this page, VT as it is known, is an excellent travel website that I do a little writing for and was actually the reason for my visit to the Philippines.  We have an ongoing thing about taking wacky photos with the VT flag.

Back up the road, we parked the bike and had a pleasant walk up a fairly rough track to the entrance to the Falls.  The walk itself was enjoyable if a little rough underfoot and we passed a number of cottage industry nurseries on the way.  Some of the flowers were gorgeous and Buena went on a Kodak safari with her rather tasty new camera.

Nursery, Apolong.

A sample of the produce.

Eventually we arrived at the entrance to the falls.

Here we are, well almost.

I was rather looking forward to them as there  had been a bit of rain in the previous few days so they should have been fairly full.  Actually, I lie, there had been a shedload of rain so they should have been incredible.  Down, down and ever down we went on some pretty slippery steps which was quite interesting as we were both wearing flipflops (thongs) which are probably not the most practical footwear for such a journey.  We eventually got to the bottom of the gorge to a soundtrack of ever-increasing rushing water having navigated a very precarious final metal section of stairs, and there we were.

Stairway to Heaven?

The Casaroro Falls.  Actually, no.  We could hear them but we couldn't see them.  This image might give an idea and I shall post it in large format to assist you understanding why.

Almost Casaroro.

Look at the right midground.  There is something that doesn't look natrual.  I remember being taught somewhere that there are no straight lines in nature.  What you see is the remains of the concrete path leading to the falls proper.  The floods had completely washed it out.  Well, nothing to be done then but take a couple of photos and head back up the three hundred and something steps to the top.  I did count them but I'm damned if I can remember now.

I realise that there are other priorities here (fixing the roads would be a start) but it seems to me that if the local authorities want to attract tourists they need to sort out this place, one of the relatively few natural attractions in the area.

We headed back into town stopping on the way for a look at this completely crazy sign I had noticed before.  I really don't know what the owner of these premises is on but he wants to get off it pretty rapidly.  The sign really tickled me though.  Remember this is in a pretty wild place where most of the locals have extremely limited or no English.  Who is he aiming this at?

Not a family man then.

Silligaw fish soup.

Back in the comparative civilisation of Dumaguete City, Buena re-introduced me to the delights of Silligaw, a fish soup somewhat akin to the French bouillabaisse but flavoured with tamarind whch gives it a delightful sour tang.  Not to everyone's taste but I love it.  I had promised to buy her dinner wherever she wanted after her wonderful hospitality to me in Bacolod and she picked Hayahay, a little way out of town towards Sibulan.  It has a great live section.  I have seen live fish and seafood tanks before but this is the first place I have ever seen oysters kept live in a tank.  It is a very popular spot with expats but still is not expensive by British standards.  A lovely meal.

Buena (David) Bailey checking the photographc handiwork.

Well fed and a little tired from the days exertions, we retired home.

QUIZ ANSWER.

OK, at the top of the post I set you a little poser (as opposed to the three little poseurs pictured) as to who the second male was in the picture.  It's the "girl" on the extreme right of the picture as you look, the simply wonderful MacMac who is effectively the manager of Pirates Bay bar.  The others, left to right are AJ and Bets and they are all delightful.  I'll just fill you in a little on the situation here, for those who have not visited Southeast Asia.  MacMac is what is known in the Philippines as a byot (I am spelling this phonetically so don't bother googling it) which is a generic term for either a male homosexual, transvestite or transexual.  Lesbians are referred to as tomboys, a much different usage of the word than in the UK.

There is a much greater acceptance of transexuals in Asia than there appears to be in Europe and there appears to be no stigma in a pretty obvious male painting their nails, growing their hair and wearing a skirt.  Personally, I really don't give a damn if someone wants to live like this and MacMac and I have a great laugh about it.  I tease him / her all the time and I can tell you that MacMac has got, apart from an excellent command of English, a wicked dry sense of humour not to mention a figure and hair that most European women would die for.

I write this blog predominantly for my family and friends to keep up with what I am doing so don't panic folks.  I am not going to appear back in the UK with MacMac to set up house.  It's like I have said so many times before, things are just different in SE Asia which is probably why I love it so much here.

This post is long enough now, so I'll publish it and maybe start another one this afternoon.  The cloud cover here has been about 8/10 all week so sunbathing is a no-no although it is still about 30 degrees.  Oh poor me.  Speak soon.

The beginning of the end.

OK, where were we?  I was in a pretty posh resort that had about as much soul as a week dead haddock and no transport in the middle of nowhere.  Time to explore, says I.  Declining the offer of a hugely overpriced resort controlled taxi, I took to my feet again.  Up along the most convoluted track ever, evidently designed to circumnavigate the various fields, a quick altercation with some mad dogs in the neighbouring premises and I was back on the Highway in daylight.  The plan was to get a jeepney into town to see what was what and try to get a better place.  Across the road from the entrance I saw a building which looked for all the world like a bar although the "For Sale" sign outside was a bit off-putting.  Well, I have ever been a curious bugger so I wandered in.

Hazel, La Fiesta Restobar, San Miguel.

Almost the first sight I saw in what I now know to be the La Fiesta Restobar is the delightful Hazel here on the occasion of her 22nd birthday.  Hazel is variously barmaid, cook, chambermaid, laundress and various other things but we will come to that in due course.

I got talking to Magnus and Haken (Mac and Hawk), the Swedish brothers who had built the place to sell as an investment.  I'll jump a little ahead here and show you some photos of what is a truly brilliant place.

My home from home, La Fiesta.

This is where I live still, some six weeks later and, frankly, no notion of moving any time soon.

This is where I am composing this blog.  Hard life, isn't it?

So, I had a couple of beers and chatted wth the guys, who are absolute diamonds.  I found out that I could rent the cabin in the photo above for 500 pesos a night, which is one quarter of what I was paying in the morgue down the road.  Subsequently, I got an even better monthly rate but that will come in due course.

Yum yum.

For those of you who concern yourselves about my somewhat erratic eating habits, fear not.  I have even taken to eating breakfasts now and this is the reason why.  Delicious.

The lovely Lisa.

This is the purveyor of such gastrnomic delights, the lovely Lisa.  She is an absolute darling.  She is the girlfriend of the night guard who is a real nice bloke and not only cooks and cleans, she handwashes my laundry beautifully and even washes my rented motorbike for a few pesos.

Having served my sentence in Dumaguete Shits Springs, I walked up the track dragging my trusty £15 Whitechapel market kitbag behind me and took up residence in this lovely place.

Having negotiated the hire of a lovely little 125cc Suzuki Thunder to run about with at the ludicrous price of 200 pesos a day (about £3 or less) I was well set to spend a few days in and around Dumaguete.  Well, a few days as I thought but more of that in the next post.

I am feeling quite happy with myself now as I have actually been fairly productive today on the blog front.  Another week and I might even be up to date but somehow I doubt it.  Stay tuned.

The road to the Dumaguete Triangle.

Last time I described the last night of the Bacolodiat festival, my impromptu late night market visit and consequent very late bedtime so it was no surprise that I didn't get up in time for the silly o'clock air-con bus.  I checked reluctantly out of the rather pleasant hotel I was in, grabbed a taxi to the Southern bus station and had my first up close encounter with one of the most dangerous things ever invented by man or more possibly the more malign witches of Siquijor island (of whom more later). 

Ceres assassin Liner.

This thing is a Ceres Liner bus and it is the most feared thing in the Visaya region of the Philippines.  I have been forced off the road twice by them whilst riding my motorbike.  Don't panic, they generally only force you off wen there is somewhere to go and I am well aware of them.  They drive like complete lunatics.  I heard a joke that if a Ceres Liner driver knocks somebody over they are told to reverse over them as funeral expenses are less than hospital fees.  At least I think it's a joke.

Anyway, I got on the thing (no option really, it is the only transport) and settled down for the seven hour journey to Dumaguete, a Southern city and capital of Negros Oriental with a reputation as a University place with a relaxed atmosphere and it is certainly relaxed.  I have been here for about six weeks now with no apparent way out, but more of that in due course.

The Ceres Liner, non air-con, was great fun.  In truth, I do not like air-conditioning.  It gives me a sore throat and three nights in an air-con room will inevitably gve me a head cold.

Interior, Ceres Liner bus.

The day passed pleasantly on the bus with the window open and my arm out getting some sun.  It was not too hot, especially on the mountain section Kabankalan / Mabinay / Bias City.  there were also some nice views on this section but the bus never stops at the scenic places.  It does, however, stop just about everywhere else.  This is effectively an intercity service and you can flag it down anywhere on the road.  Similarly, you can get off at your front door, just yell at the conductor and the bus will stop.  I think the funniest bit was when the bus stopped and the conductor jumped off with a plastic bag of clothing and ran into a shack by the roadside.  He re-emerged a minute later with another bag of obviously folded clothes.  He had stopped to get his laundry.  Only in Asia.

View of Cebu.

I did manage to get one half-decent shot as the bus hurtled down the twisting mountain road with no barriers and a sheer drop.  Forget Alton Towers, this is a proper thrill ride.  Despite the best efforts of the psychotic driver, we arrived in Dumaguete in the early evening and remarkably intact.  Out of the bus station, had the obligatory argument with the trike driver who obviously took me for a mug and jumped in (at the right price) and took off on what I know now to be National Highway South.

I should explain here, I had booked ahead online at a place called Dumaguete Springs, which looked nice on the website although it was a bit above my budget.  For some reason, Duma itself was full up and I just could not get a cheap room anywhere.  At about 12km we turned off down an unpaved and unlit track and eventually turned up at the Dumaguete Springs Resort.  The first problem was finding a member of staff, which we eventually achieved by liberal use of his horn which was no problem as the horn is the most important piece of equipment on any Philippino vehicle.

Dumaguete Springs Resort room.

I don't know about you but I have a really highly tuned sense of a place almost instantaneously.  It was just after sunset and I would have expected at least one or two people either round the pool or at the bar or even at the not very inspiring beach.  Not a one, it was like the Wreck of the Hesperus, a bloody ghost ship.  Not good.  I was shown to the room, which was pleasant as the photos show.

Dumaguete Springs Resort.

The resort itself was OK although overpriced for what it was but the problem was that it was totally dead.  Damn, I was in here for three nights and there was nothing to do.  Even if I had had a partner, the pool table was covered and being used for sorting laundry.  The photo of the jacuzzi says it all really.  I found out that the first night I was there that only one other couple was booked in and the second night I was the sole paying guest.  Even at the ridiculous prices here, it can't be covering overheads at that rate.

Alleged jacuzzi, Dumaguete Springs.

I did find out later that the resort is owned by an Austrian guy who has various other businesses in the Phils and is run by his mistress.  You heard it here folks and, believe me, I have all the inside gossip in this town now.  He might want to have a look at what is undoubtedly a multi million peso investment.  In fairness to the place, it did have a lovely pool, so here it is.  More to come soon.

Pool, Dumaguete Springs resort.