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.

Of Bikes and Bikers.

Nothing much happened the next couple of days except watching the death toll from the earthquake sadly rising hour by hour.  It was some light relief then when I heard a strange engine note coming into the car park behind me in the place I stay.  I looked round to see the magnificent machine you see pictured here being ridden by my Canadian mate Gerry. 

Gerry's hotrod.

Gerry is a larger than life character with a million stories to tell, most of which are not for public consumption but he is one of the good guys.  He is also a complete bike nut.  In the few weeks I have been here he has bought five bikes and sold two to my knowledge, but with Gerry you never know.  He thinks he has 13 in his garage now but he is never sure and that figure will probably change by tomorrow.  Whilst the Ninja 1000 is nice, this is my favourite.

Gerry's hotrod.

Gerry's hotrod.

I won't use copyrighted images on my blog but you may want to look up Yamaha Chapy on the internet.  It is basically the smallest 49cc lightweight ridiculous looking scooter you have ever seen.  Gerry ripped it to pieces and chopped it as you see.  The front forks have a 43 degree rake which actually gives it a longer wheelbase than the Ninja.  The engine noise is a thing of beauty and he regularly pulls wheelies in the carpark here.  I know he has already turned down a serious amount of money for it and I am not surprised.





This was to be the start of a day of bikes and bikers as the title suggests and the beginning of a "beautiful friendship" with some really nice guys.


Mac had been invited to a biker party in the Road Hose bar in Dumaguete.  He knows a lot of bikers as many of them use his bar to socialise.  He asked me if I wanted to come with him.  I initially declined thinking along UK, European and US lines that it would be a lot of pretty bhard men getting drunk and maiming each other especially in a country where ilegal weapons are so freely available but he assured me that the bikers here were all nice guys, generally middle aged Westerners  who just liked to ride big bikes so I agreed.  Knowing there might be a beer or two involved we left the bikes and jumped on a jeepney into town, Mac, Hazel and I.

I was initially a bit hesitant, not knowing the score, but I needn't have worried.  Mac was talking to Chuck the owner and Hazel was with the ladies so I was sort of left alone.  I adopted a low profile (well, as low as I can at 6'5" and looking like Gandalf) and checked the place out.  there were probably about 40n or 50 patched bikers there and plenty more people wearing support T-shirts,, hang around shirts and so on.  For those of you not aware of the etiquette, I'll try and fill you in a little.  You don't ask to join a bike club of this type, you have to be invited.  You go to where they congregate and hang around with them, hence the term.  After a period of time you may be invited as a prospect or a nominee (the nomenclature varies in different countries) and you get your first rocker.  The rockers are the two curved patches above and below the central one on the rear of a bikers colours.  If you are further accepted, you get your second rocker and eventually the central patch of your club which makes you a fully-fledged member.  I won't bore you with what all the other patches mean and I don't even know them all myself.  OK, Bike Club introductory lesson over and back to the party.

The thing that amazed me was that there were bikers from all different clubs drinking and chatting quite amicably.  I know that in Europe, for example, the Hell's Angels and Outlaws have been klling each other for a number of years now but it does not seem to be the case here.  I later found out that the venue was the HQ of the Roadrunners M.C. but there were riders from many different clubs there and evidently welcome.  I met a cuple of UK guys including one from about three miles down the road from where I live and was starting to feel a little more comfortable.  Everyone I spoke to was friendly and I was not allowed to put my hand in my pocket to buy a beer.

I should explain here that there is only one photo which you will see later.  I still didn't want to be waving a camera about as an unkown quantity in this company much less use flash and draw attention to myself.  At one point a rather large man with a shaven head came up to me and introduced himself to me as Kojak (for obvious reasons), telling me that this was his patching ceremony.  Again, I was amazed.  In UK, civilians like me would never be invited to that, nor indeed other club members but it just seems to work differently here.  I congratulated him and we spoke nof this and that.  He told me to eat and drink my fill, and it was all at his expense as is apparently the custom here, so I thanked him and set about the bar.  I subsequently found out that Kojak is a retired full Colonel in the US Special Forces and a Vietnam veteran.  He is a hugely impressive man in every sense.  I am not breaching any confidentiality here, he is quite open about it.

A word about the food would be in order here.  A friend, who hangs around with the Outsiders M.C., of whom more later, runs a farm ehre and had produced two whole roast suckling pigs, one sweet and one spicy and there was also a large selection of other food, all delicious.  No-one was going to go hungry for sure.

Later I was introduced to a guy called Joey and we found out we had a lot in common including, smewhat bizarrely, a deep love of the music of Jethro Tull.  More of this later, it gets a little crazy.  Joey was going to patch Kojak and I found out that he too was an officer in the Rangers recon, another elite US unit.  You would hardly think it to look at him in his bike colours, earrings, assorted finger rings etc. and again he is quite open about it or I would not be posting this, I am not that stupid.  I shall jump ahead here to post a picture of Joey, his delightful wife Michelle and I on another social occasion when I knew him well enough to get the camera out.

Joey, Michelle and myself.

Eventually, it came time for the ceremony and I stayed to the rear obviously.  I only took a couple of photos without flash but you can possibly see the sight that greeted us.  Joey got rid of the bike colours and donned his full Army dress uniform.  It was pretty mpressive I can tell you, he had a large array of medals and patches for just about everything.  I shall post it in large format so hopefully you can see it better.

Kojak's patching, Dumaguete City.

The evening wore on, the drink flowed and I did not hear so much as a harsh wrd between bikers of rival clubs.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable night and I made a few acquaintances who will figure later on in the story.

For now I've to to go off rapido, I have a party to go to.  It's a hard life here.

Stay tuned.