The people who make your world

 Many times I’ve promised myself not to bite into the tourist superstructure of whatever country I visit. It isn’t inevitable, there are always chances to avoid the accommodation designed for the casual visitors, it just needs a little extra work. As an outsider some options won’t be available, but the more out of the way places are the more people will make exceptions and go out of their way to help. More and more my attitude has been that space will be made, even at the expense of ousting families from their own home, for some ready cash. Now, that may sound barbaric, but look at it from a poor rural family’s viewpoint. Along comes an opportunity to see more cash per week than you could earn in a month, and that’s on top of your normal earnings. Yes, it does mean the whole family must squeeze into one room at night, but they don’t see that as a hardship. Speaking as someone who has given people a place to stay with no recompense I don’t think I’m taking the piss. (Photo: A rather beautiful moth which I can't ID, it's nearly as big as my hand though - Barangay Valencia, Cebu Island)

It isn’t quite the situation at the moment here in the Philippines, no-one has been ousted from their own space. The rooms I’m renting were used a long time ago by one of the family, but had been relegated to a store-room many moons ago. OK, it’s a good deal bigger than the average family has at their disposal, but I’m also paying twice as much as the average family earns each month. It was a good move for me. Though I was welcome to continue living with Cookie, Dindin and their kids I felt I was imposing on their very limited space as it was. I had no plans to hang around this long, my intention had been to reunite Zoe with her daughter, sort out the unwanted pregnancy and be on my way. Wouldn’t it be nice if things always went to plan? Actually, no! It would make life predictable, and in my mind somewhat boring. At the moment I can handle a bit of dependable, every day life though. Recent events have not enamoured me to this country, whilst individuals and families have been so kind the social system is medieval. (Photo: Next door neighbours, happy to run down the shop for mum - Barangay Valencia, Cebu Island) 

Everyone, without exception, complains of the corruption throughout the whole system within the Philippines, from the highest levels all the way to the bottom. A politician gets voted in and the first comments are of how corrupt they are. So how do they get in power? Mainly by buying votes, which I find a stunning concept. For a pittance in pesos, people will vote in someone they know to be corrupt. Which of course is bizarre, the very people who are destined to suffer the most give up their rights for a lousy buck. Short sighted is the kindest expression I could make, the trouble is no-one actually believes it will make a difference. With corruption running rampant through all sectors of society it seems nigh on impossible to change the whole system in one foul swoop. As with all institutionalised problems, what it really needs is to be uprooted and replaced wholesale, a mere shakedown just won’t do the job. (Photo: My...er hmm...friend, Zoe - Barangay Valencia, Cebu Island)

While in the hospital I was surprised to hear of the patients for the government hospital having to buy the drugs and supplies for their treatment. To my knowledge much of these are gifted by foreign powers or organisations to provide treatment to the poor and needy, treatment that would otherwise not be available. Instead of being provided free, they are sold, and treatment will not be given until the drugs are purchased. In effect the government are profiteering from medical supplies donated by foreign aid programs. There is a basic Social Services program whereby patients can receive treatment at a vastly discounted price, if your circumstances are judged to be desperate enough. This is government funded, and can offset the costs of treatment by up to 90%. Being as I wasn’t a family member I wouldn’t have been able to apply for this, despite Zoe having no income of job. They don’t interview the patient, they interview the watcher and make their assessment based on that. Personal family history is necessary for a successful application, I worry about emergency cases where a family member is not available for the process, surely they’d treat the patient anyway. (Photo: Lola, the matriarch of the family. I thought Lola was her name, but it means grandmother - Barangay Valencia, Cebu Island)

However much I’ve tried to come to terms with my experiences at the hands of the medical services here, I’ve failed. It leaves a lot to be desired. Though probably no worse than many developing countries it’s a far cry from what we’re used to in Europe. I’ve only had one foreign experience with hospitals before, when Cai died on that fateful trip to the States, and treatment certainly wasn’t withheld then. Without doubt life is cheap in most of the world, in rural areas of developing countries there is little hope of receiving vital medical treatment, which is why foreign aid is so valuable. Why does it take a major catastrophe, like Typhoon Yolanda, to wake the world’s population up to the deplorable health services that exist each and every day? My anger in the Cebu hospital was directed at the staff on the front line, maybe wrongly so, but if they don’t push for change who’s going to. They claim they are poorly paid, but earn much more than the average citizen in these parts. But health issues are far more widely spread than the supposed centres for health care. (Photo: Kurt, the second eldest of Cookie - Barangay Valencia, Cebu Island)

One of the family I’m involved with here in Valencia has long-term psychological problems, it’s Post Traumatic Stress. Some years ago he witnessed a brutal and bloody murder, he desperately wanted to help the victim but couldn’t due to the presence of the very violent murderer. Since then he’s lost his grip on reality, and lives in a fairly constant state of angst. For a long time he was bound in restraints, deemed to be a risk to himself if not to others. Now he enjoys a certain degree of freedom. Whether he goes unmedicated due to finances or a reluctance to take what’s prescribed is unclear, but he spends long hours of the day and night locked in a darkened room. Psychologically he battles imaginary adversaries, reminiscent of Smaegol/Golom. He plays various parts of the deadly game; pleading for mercy and understanding, shrieking for vengeance and destruction, and placating in a calm and rational way. At times he will sit outside, observing, quiet, but apparently fine. I’ve been trying to work out whether his psychosis is brought on by being locked up, or whether he’s locked up when he starts being psychotic. From what I’ve observed it’s the former, which makes the mind boggle. He receives no professional help, is simply left to the mercy of his family. (Photo: Angel, Cookie's current youngest, having one of her fallen moments - Barangay Valencia, Cebu Island)

Despite adopting a cynical frame of mind over my insights to health issues in the Philippines, I consider myself lucky. Purely because I’ve seen the conditions people have to survive in, what they must put up with daily. Also because I’m not condemned to share the difficulties they must endure, I have a get out clause, I can run home whenever I want. I had been wondering whether this country might offer me an alternative to living in the UK, at present I can’t imagine it could. While I think highly of those I live amongst I have severe doubts as to the workings of their country. The last thing I'd want is to be one of those whinging ex-pats who does nothing useful, 

I'll see you in Cebu

It took me six days to wind my way from Manila to the Derawan Archipeligo. I chose carefully my modes of transport wherever I could, keeping the costs down as time was not exactly of the essence. Only once did I take to the air, which was the first leg of the journey, a necessary evil to reach the shores of enchanted Borneo. Once there I used, express buses, chicken buses, shared taxis, ferries and speedboats, sometimes spending nights travelling to save on hotel bills. The emphasis had changed on my unplanned return, speed was of the utmost importance. Without any idea of schedules or availability the whole affair was pretty hit or miss. First and foremost an airport had to be reached, which involved a speedboat trip and a taxi to Berau. As luck would have it a friendly taxi van sat waiting on the dock as I coasted in from Pulau Derawan. He quickly understood I was in a hurry, while we drove he frantically phoned various agents and by the time we were halfway to Berau he’d secured a seat for me on the first flight to Tarakan.

I bounced from airport to airport, booking the next available flight as I landed at each new point of transit, Berau to Tarakan, Tarakan to Tawau, Tawau to Kota Kinabalu, KK to Manila, and finally on to Cebu. It proved a dizzying process, but I suffered no delays, waiting very little time at any airport. Until I got to Kota Kinabalu that is, I couldn’t get a flight to Manila within thirty-six hours with Air Asia, the only other airline who flew to Manila had no office at the airport, so I had to wait until the following morning to book through an agent in town. Try as I might I attempt to maintain a philosophy of not worrying over a situation that is out of my control, you have to accept it with good grace. For once I was hard pushed to put this into practice, I knew someone’s well being was at stake. But I managed to book one of the last seats on a Cebu Pacific flight the following night, with an onward connection to Cebu City itself. It meant I would manage to return in a third the time to travel in the first place; mind you, it cost three times the price. (Photo: If I found a guesthouse with a toilet this bad I'd look somewhere else, it stank and was filthy - Vicente Sotto Memorial Medical Centre, Cebu City)

Arriving in Valencia was to the sight of Zoe lying on the floor, weak and feverish, finding the pain too much for her. I wish I could say money was no object, but it had to be considered. There were private hospitals, but they weren’t cheap, I was assured treatment was available at the government hospital in Cebu city, over two hours away. Apparently the initial abortion had been incomplete, leaving a good deal of the placenta still attached to the uterus. Infection had set in, haemorrhaging was becoming a problem and the need for treatment was getting crucial. To top it all there were virtually no options but public transport to get there, all I can say is I’m glad I carry co-codemol with me when I travel. With her pain deadened and her mind floating amongst the clouds we set off, first needing to ride by motorcycle taxi into Carcar, then a public bus onto the capital of the island, Cebu.

I was aghast walking through the doors of Emergency, my first sight was a room overflowing with activity, beds were crammed in randomly, there wasn’t the slightest semblance of order to be seen. Visitors outnumbered medical staff or patients, in fact the medics almost had to fight their way through to treat the sick and injured. Amongst the mayhem a patient was being given CPR, the nursing team having to elbow people out their was to gain access and try to save a life. Thankfully being admitted was a painless process, the quickly checked Zoe’s details, assessed her condition and passed her on to the relevant department. They actually have a specific room for gynaecological emergencies, though at the time the necessity wasn’t apparent. What immediately became apparent was the appalling conditions under which people were subjected to in an effort to receive vital treatment. The walls were filthy, the floor as bad and the corridors lined with people squatting, sleeping, eating and trying to take their minds off the trauma effecting their lives. (Photo: Sent back to purgatory - Vicente Sotto Memorial Medical Centre, Cebu City)

Thinking there was a spare seat in the gyno room was a sad mistake, no-one sat there because the seat was thickly coated with relatively fresh blood. Drops of dried blood spotted the floor, across the walls could be seen smears of it. While we were there one poor woman sat with blood dribbling down her inner thighs, not a single member of staff took any notice. The reason for each patient having an entourage of visitors (they actually call them watchers) quickly became obvious. The nursing staff only administer the strictly medical procedures, all the rest is left to the watchers, that includes wiping up any mess, cleaning the patient, fetching and carrying food, water and traipsing around non-stop to procure the drugs and sundry items needed for treatment. Everything must be purchased, with the exception of rubber gloves the staff use, cotton wool they use for swabbing and tape. My first job was to do the rounds of pharmacies buying a long list of drugs and supplies. IV drips were included, dextrose solution for the drip, adult nappies to stop any spillage from the haemorrhaging, anti-biotics, anaelgesics and transfusion kit, to name but a few items. (Photo: When things are feeling rough think of happier times, Jaslyn and Angel - Valencia, Cebu Island)

The whole episode was a palaver, there was no centralised pharmacy, the hospital itself hosted four of them, and if they were out of stock of anything the only options were the more expensive, private, pharmacies across the road. Everything has to be paid for up front, often meaning retracing your steps many times between the cashiers office and various pharmacies. The turnover in the hospital is phenomenal, the human traffic within the grounds never stops, it’s business twenty-four/seven. People can be found stretched out sleeping in corridors, stairwells, along concrete walls and filling every waiting room. Many of the poorest people are from out in the provinces, for a watcher to accompany them their only choice is to stay with the patient. So you find each patient with at least one permanent visitor, and they need a person to care for them, because you can be damned sure the nursing staff won’t.

It took a six hour wait before they came for Zoe, she went in for a RASPA procedure, to remove whatever remained of the placenta or conception tissue (I think that was their terminology). None of the rooms in the ER sections had curtains or any degree of privacy, patients were examined pretty much in full view of all and sundry. The only concession was the full internal examinations in the gyno section, though they did less thorough examinations for all to see. When they brought the trolley for OR, she had to strip naked, in the corridor, with a host of curious onlookers happily watching. The orderly did nothing to help, rather copped for a good look himself in the process. If I hadn’t been there to protect her modesty it would have been a full frontal show for all. But if I thought that was bad, the worst of it didn’t’ emerge until after the procedure was complete. (Photo: An ingenious use of natural resources, a coconut scrub for buffing floors. It works wonderfully! - My temporary home in Valencia, Cebu Island)

The ward she was taken to for further evaluation, and eventual discharge, was called the holding area. Patients were squeezed in, two to a bed, and I kid you not. Most beds had two patients and any number of watchers inhabiting whatever space they could manoeuvre themselves into. It was sweltering in there and even dirtier than ER had been. Behind Zoe’s bed was a used drip tube with empty dextrose bottle still attached, a filthy rag lay under the bed, and the sheet was grubby grey with blood and other questionable stains adorning it. Feral cats prowled the actual ward, and no-one took a blind bit of notice. And if the wards were bad the toilets should have been condemned for demolition, or buried in a plague pit. Having no water or available tissue was standard for many of them, having running water in the cubicle was the exception rather than the rule. Without money there was no palatable water available anywhere, ceiling fans weren’t working making it almost unbearable, and when they did call in a technician he only fixed the one over the nurse’s station, leaving the patients to suffer.

I was disgusted with the conditions, and appalled at the lack of care for the patients. Nurses repeated the same skin test on Zoe many times, because they didn’t even bother to read her chart. Attempts at inserting an IV were clumsy and thoughtless, they were damned arrogant to top it all. As a double check another ultra-scan was ordered, which of course I had to pay for. From the results the doctor promised an examination would be performed, it was doubtful another RASPA procedure would be necessary. After six hours an examination still hadn’t taken place, so they requested another RASPA as a precautionary measure. Another seven hours and it still hadn’t been done. By the time she went to OR again it was over thirteen hours she’d been without food or drink, by order of the medical staff. When they didn’t perform the RASPA, but decided to reschedule for a full general anaesthetic. Due to Zoe’s anxiety she found it hard to relax sufficiently for the cervix to dilate properly. It felt like the last straw for us both! (Photo: Living area, with open grilled windows, great for ventilation - My temporary home in Valencia, Cebu Island)

I was at my whit’s end, bearing in mind I was in the middle of my third night with no sleep I’m not surprised I began to get more demanding. ‘When will this be rescheduled for?’ Reassurance was given, within the hour they claimed. After another four hours, still with no news of the operation we upped and left. You can be damned sure they didn’t like that, not in the slightest. Security were called and they stopped us leaving the premises, physically. They escorted us back to the ward, and even after signing discharge papers they refused our departure. Tempers were frayed, accusations of incompetence made, until finally the doctor actually put in an appearance and let loose a vicious tirade at us. She threatened to report Zoe to the police for having an illegal abortion, so much for doctor patient confidentiality. I can appreciate her being overworked, but she was downright nasty. When pointing out the terrible conditions the patients were subjected to she retorted, ‘This is a charity hospital, what do you expect?’ My answer was simple, ‘proper medical care’. (Photo: Sleeping space, amazing how quick you get used to a thin foam mattress. - My temporary home in Valencia, Cebu Island)

Parting criticism by a nurse was about my calling them incompetent in front of other patients, he felt it might give them cause to question the process’ they’re subjected to. Now we can’t be having that can we? I raised the question as to how many points on the patients Bill of Rights they’d failed to adhere to. I was told the patients have no right to see the Bill of Rights, they’ll be informed of any relevant points by their doctor, if and when it’s thought to be necessary. We were released, and felt relieved to be out of the place. Of the few shadows seen on the ultra-scan, well they seemed to have come out as discharged blood clots. Zoe is feeling well and content her ordeal is finally over. All abortion is illegal in the Philippines, and like backstreet abortions the world over, the rate of malpractice is high. To have a section of ER specifically for such problems only highlights the dangers of keeping the process illegal. Raising the question of legalising abortion is supposed to be on the governments agenda now, though I’m sure with Typhoon Yolanda there are more important issues to deal with.

As for me, well I'm back in the provinces of Cebu having spent all my allocated money for the trip so far, and then quite a bit more. I've not applied myself to my writing and am determined to do so. The outcome of this is to rent a home for at least the next two months, at £60 a month I hope to bolster my finances before throwing myself at the wider world again. In the meantime I have the perfect opportunity to get stuck into my book again. The space had been used for storage above a shop for some time now, but it used to be someone's home once. After a thorough clean and polish it's been transformed into a spartan but usable space. (Photo: And lastly my work space, to one end of the bedroom. It gives a good view onto the street below, so I can while away the hours while contemplating my choice of expression. - My temporary home in Valencia, Cebu Island)

Rebound from Borneo

In many ways it was lucky to meet a group travelling together, especially as their destination coincided with my own. I don’t shun company while travelling, though sometimes I don’t exactly welcome it. But they were all nice people, and the group of four made a single traveller easy to join with and share the costs of chartering various forms of transport, of which there are many that would prove prohibitively expensive alone. The hope had been to make the journey from Tawau at least to Berau in a single day, though it proved we’d bitten off more than we could chew. A small powerboat was offering to take us from the port at Tarakan, the first port of call in Kalimantan, direct to Pulau Derawan. In effect the boat was a tiny speedboat hardly big enough to fit five people in, let alone the luggage. The three hour journey, in a deteriorating sea seemed madness, so we opted for spending a night in Tarakan instead. The next morning would be plenty of time to embark on the next leg of the journey. (Photo: Chewing the cud before sailing - Tarakan dock, Kalimantan)

I guess it went well enough, an early start followed by steady progress got us to the island of Derawan in the afternoon. It’s the island that the archipelago takes its name from, though is nowhere near the largest of the group, it just happens to be the nearest to the mainland. Prices are high, for everything. There are no public ferries, boats have to be chartered, which proves expensive. Mind you the cost always feels much higher than it actually is. With 18,000 Indonesian Rupiahs to the pound, a million is actually only £55.56. So you do have to put it into perspective. At a cost of half a million the twenty-minute boat ride is still expensive for Indonesia, however cut off the islands are. The dollar signs kerching as the tourists step out the car on arrival at the port. No-one is about to offer a reasonable price, you’re easy meat, and they know it. It did make me think though, could it have been easier to slot in with locals had I been alone? Maybe, but once you commit yourself to one course of action you may as well stick with it. (Photo: The church never reflects the poverty - Tarakan, Kalimantan)

Puttering the last few metres to the jetty on Derawan the excitement started, two turtles could easily be seen. I nearly jump overboard immediately, so keen was I to swim with turtles. Over the years I’ve seen a fair number, but only individuals on rare occasions. To see two in rapid succession was delightful, whether or not the locals assured me there was an abundance of them I needed a little more than offhand claims. Looking off the jetty one swan lazily within a few metres of the supports, seemingly unconcerned with life above water. I was tempted to dive straight off the pier, but knew the splash would have scared them away. When a stray plastic bag wafted off the pier into the water I couldn’t just stand and watch it drift off to sea. So in I went, diving into the water five metres or so below. The water was lovely, and I resisted the urge to swim out to the turtles who’d, true to form, vacated the immediate vicinity. A valiant effort maybe, but I hate to see the sea polluted, even by accident. (Photo: White egret, I think - Tarakan dock, Kalimantan)

The turtles are reputed to come in their droves with the incoming tide, or so the locals claim. Call me a cynic if you will, but I’ve heard too many claims to entice the tourists. Still I was determined to check out the scene for myself, so I took only a little time to grab a room and don my swimwear. If there were turtles in them there waters I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to meet them. I even forebore the offer of a free massage, though I can’t claim to be enamoured with his desire to play with my nipples, massage is one thing, sexual foreplay with a weird Native American lookalike is quite another. It’s not that I object, but it just ain’t my thang baby. Anyway, armed with snorkel, fins and mask I went on the hunt for the sure sign of turtles between the numerous jetties. It took a while, there are so many jetties and many prohibit non-guests. But as the sun sank, I wondered down a lonely pier and saw the tell tale signs, a turtle surfacing for air. (Photo: Living platform - Sailing to Tanjung Siloh Kalimantan)

Striking out for the last place I saw it surface I didn’t really expect to find it so soon. But it wasn’t particularly evasive, not excessively shy. It sat on the seabed, munching happily on eelgrass, paying little attention to my close proximity. I didn’t get too close though, they do tend to be slightly timid. Instead I hung nearby, observing from a distance. As it grazed ever onwards I tailed it from a distance, not being too impatient though desperate to get a closer look. Following in its wake, I was surprised to find it took me to yet another. If I thought the first was a good example the next was a virtual behemoth. Even more surprised when the first started sniffing around the rear end of the one we encountered. Strewth, for one minute I actually thought they were going to get it on together. No such luck, but they did stay in the same vicinity. The glorious conclusion of that first session was to encounter four turtles, all fairly close together. (Photo: Seaborne city - Sailing to Tanjung Siloh Kalimantan)

Amazing, that’s more turtles than I’ve seen altogether in many years, and all in one place, on one snorkel session. Those who had already experienced the delights of the Derawan Archipeligo were probably somewhat amused by my early enthusiasm. I didn’t curtail my delight though, the following morning I had the pleasure of floating in the middle of a group of six, none of which were perturbed at my presence, until I dove into the middle of them. At which time they scattered to the four corners. I was still taking cautiously, not getting too near, trying my damnedest not to spook them. But I couldn’t resist reaching out a hand, as one surface next to me, and stroking its shell. Euh, slimy or what! It was covered in algal growth, rather than feeling hard and shell like it was more like the slimy side of a dirty fish tank. It didn’t appreciate it either, I swear the look in its eye was of near panic. So I go back to my normal practice and look but don’t touch. (Photo: The first view of the island - Pulau Derawan, Kalimantan)

Most the turtles I’ve seen have remoras attached, parasite eating fish who live a symbiotic life. They sucker onto the turtle’s shell and life on whatever encrusts itself there. Some are huge, almost the length of the turtle itself. It’s strange, they generally favour the top shell. Yet whenever the turtle heads to the surface for a breath of fresh air the remoras scuttle underneath, so they’re not exposed to the air. It was funny though watching one turtle, obviously irritated by something it scratched frenziedly at its underside, first with its front fins then with both. I don’t think it was the remoras themselves, more likely at a persistent parasite they’d failed to alleviate the turtle of. It’s a crying shame to see gouges in the shells of many of them, obviously the local speedboats extract their toll. I watched one near fly across the water when suddenly a loud grating noise erupted from the prop, there was no sign of any debris so my guess is another turtle had a close encounter with modern outboard engines. (Photo: Happy snapper - Pulau Derawan, Kalimantan)

I got bolder with my interaction with my shell like friends, started spending more and more time underwater with them. It appeals to me, surfacing for air at the same time, diving down alongside one of these graceful beasts. But on my third day they seemed more easily spooked, as I tried swimming alongside them they increase speed, slightly perturbed at my proximity. Unable to determine exactly why I could only make assumptions. Spending lots of time up close and personal didn’t work well, when before it had been fine. Was it the cloudiness of the water, was I acting too predatory. It took patience and lots of time to get close and not unsettle them. I’ve seen literally dozens of them in the last few days, more than I could have imagined before. It’s true the feeding grounds of the Derawan islands are second to none for swimming with turtles. I can only recommend you see for yourself, it’s a most amazing experience. But don’t hassle them, certainly don’t grab hold of them and try to ride them, if you do a pox on you, I hope life treats you with the same contempt. They’re beautiful creatures and shouldn’t be meddled with.  (Photo: Gawking at the world above - Pulau Derawan, Kalimantan)

It isn’t only the turtles that make this island a place of wonder, the local populace are so friendly and laid back as well. Yeah, their understanding of a clean environment leaves a lot to be desired, but they’re a developing nation, they need time to learn the intricacies of a bright and clean future. They are slowly learning, but when you see kids go to the sea specifically to throw their rubbish away it makes you wonder. Near the jetties local accommodation is littered with discarded rubbish, but with no rubbish collection it’s little wonder. A little education will go a long way. Trouble is the adults need educating as much as the kids, and I think it’s where tourism comes in. It’s our job to make it clear how much we dislike the pollution they take for granted, if they think their livelihood might be under threat I’m sure it will improve their disposal practices. Or maybe they’ll just be more secretive about them. You know, out of sight out of mind. (Photo: Typical tourist accommodation - Pulau Derawan, Kalimantan)

The biggest surprise for me, and the most shocking is bad news from the Philippines. My friend has apparently been admitted into hospital, suffering from internal haemorrhaging. The details are sketchy as contact has been severely restricted due the international dictates of local cell phones. All I can ascertain is that she has lost a lot of blood, is in hospital and needs an operation. I know neither her nor her family have the funds for such treatment, so I’ve decided to beat a hasty retreat and do what I can to help. Part of the pressing problem for this woman, as well as the bereavement and drug use, was to find herself pregnant. As she’d already had her existing child taken out her care, another unwanted offspring wasn’t exactly her best step forward in life. She was looking for a way out, as I’ve already mentioned. I took it upon myself to provide that, part and parcel of trying to help her. It now seems the abortion she sought didn’t go as planned, the complications sound severe. I can only try and make amends for something I involved myself in initially, whether right or wrong I can’t turn my back on this. Though I do wonder whether it would be easier to walk away, it isn't really in my heart to do so. (Photo: Everyone loves a sailor - Pulau Derawan, Kalimantan)

Provincial strife

It was with some consternation that well wishes came flooding in from home and abroad. Apparently everyone was worried about my safety, something to do with a typhoon. Sure the warnings came, even to my far corner of the provinces, but it passed without undue stress in a matter of twenty-four hours. Sure we relocated to a safer abode, the palms swaying over the Nippa hut, the family home, caused some concern. Not from me, they were leaning completely the wrong way to come crashing onto the hut itself, but I wasn’t about to ignore the families worry. So we all slept in a friend’s home, a concrete built abode that made everyone feel more secure. Ironically, the same haven of safety had structural damage from the earthquake that hit a couple of months ago. At that time it was the Nippa hut that was the safe option, it suffered not at all when the tremor uprooted part of the concrete floor in the friend’s house, making it look like the house that Jack built. (Photo: In memory of beautiful islands - Busuanga, Palawan)

My concerns in our little provincial hideaway, were of a more domesticated nature. Having praised the ever-helpful kids and the tolerance and happiness that seemed to prevail in the family home, it came as a shock when all hell broke loose. I still don’t know what caused it, as far as I could tell it was nothing more than the kids messing about while taking an outside shower. You’d never have guessed at something so innocent, not from Cookie’s response. A few simple words were all it took for the kids responsible to be cowering and begging for mercy, trying to use me as a shield to keep away from their mother. And no, she wasn’t about to meter out physical punishment in front of me. Instead she ushered them inside and commenced to beat the living daylights out of them. Fair enough, signs of physical damage was minimal, but it went on for much too long, too long for me to witness the screams and pleas coming from inside the hut. (Photo: Living a farming life in the provinces - Valencia, Cebu island, Philippines)

Zoe tried to intervene, and was told to mind her own business, it’s her sister’s house and she’ll discipline the kids as she sees fit. I couldn’t bear it, so after five to ten minutes left and tried to walk off my anxiety. I felt like a coward, undeniably, despite trying to travel with a philosophy of non-interference. They’re not my kids, it’s not my home, nor my country, and certainly not my culture. But it wasn’t too many years ago such forms of discipline were quite common at home too. I must be honest it deeply upset me, I didn’t want to face any of them. I walked for miles until finding a little country store that sold beer, then sat down and swigged three litres of beer before deciding I better return while still capable. Everyone else was pretty complacent about it, after all it doesn’t happen all the time, does it? I wouldn’t know, in my eyes it shouldn’t happen at all. My only action was to try and point out the benefits of peaceful interaction, setting a non-violent example for your kids. Whether or not it will do any good is yet to be seen, I honestly felt they were merely trying to placate me. (Photo: A hard day on the farm - Valencia, Cebu Island)

Without doubt it disturbed me and put me into a very cynical frame of mind about life in the provinces of the Philippines. I noticed how seldom the kids were praised for the thankless tasks they undertook each and every day, yet how quickly they were admonished if they faltered or did a bad job. I know it’s a hard life living close to the poverty line, but why make it heartless as well. The parents spend almost every waking hour trying to make ends meet, but the kids do a reasonable share too, they don’t sit about or run around playing that much. I was astonished at the amount of work they do as a unit. Sure we all get annoyed at times, wishing to vent our anger, but why take it out on your kids? We bring them into the world, shouldn’t we be showing them how to get on in life, how to treat our fellow human beings. One thing is certain, beating them only sets the example that you control by violence and intimidation, which isn’t right. (Photo: How many horse power? - Valencia, Cebu Island)

I’m away from that now, not due to the experience, but because it was time for me to head to Borneo. And here I am, having hot-footed it across Sabah, waiting patiently for a ferry in the morning to enter Kalimantan, the Indonesian area of Borneo. So much changed as soon as I set foot on the island, being mainly Muslim was a big enough change. Most the women are covered, few have bared heads and none sport the short shorts that are so favoured in the Philippines. I have noticed though that many younger women no longer wear long loose tops, seeing fit to show the shape of their derrières. Is there hope yet? When I see a young woman in skin tights leggings, walking with a sexy wiggle it doesn’t fit with the traditional image of a virtuous follower of Islam. Especially not when it appeared as though she had nothing on underneath, certainly nothing that showed or restricted the natural movement of her posterior. That was the most severe show of a bid for freedom from restrictive religious strictures, skin-hugging jeans are becoming more popular here, the younger generation are beginning to make their mark. The people here in Tawau are naturally friendly, but it’s rare to receive so many smiles and welcomes from young Muslim women. (Photo: Couldn't resist this, a Ferrari in a tiny backstreet garage - Manila, Philippines)

I might well be off the radar for a while, I'm off into Kalimantan tomorrow. Really looking forward to it, not even the threat from the recent terrorist attack can put me off. I've always found the Indonesians friendly I just hope they're as nice as the locals in Tawau, my visit to the fish market today was like a reunion of old buddies. Seems I'm still in a world where they love dreads. Another common compliment I receive is when I eat out, many people comment on how nice it is to see a foreigner who can eat properly, i.e. with their hands. AS in the Philippines many Malays speak pretty good English, it's not the same in Kalimantan. I won't worry though, my Bahasa seems to be making a rapid come back. If I could only find a dictionary I'll cope really well. For now though I'll put on a good show of knowing more than I actually do. If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit eh? (Photo: Some you just have to share. A street name - Tawau, Sabah, Borneo)

Be good people, there's a whole host of refugees in the Philippines who would appreciate some financial support. Please remember them on your Christmas lists.  

Life in the provinces

For a change I’m not living it up or lazing around on a golden strip of paradise, I’m living a simple life on Cebu. Away from the glitter of tourist excess’, far from the luxuries of seaside havens, my temporary home is the small family house in the Barangay of Valencia. And it is small, two rooms with a double bed sized cubbyhole under the kitchen to give extra sleeping space. For a family of five kids, pregnant wife and husband space is at a premium. Construction is of natural materials, wooden framed with woven bamboo walls and bamboo slats for the floor and outside seating area. Half the roof is corrugated tin, the rest of palm fronds. The toilet, of which the wife, Cookie, was extremely embarrassed about, is a crude shed in the garden. I tried telling her there was no problem, I’ve used worse, but it took days before I surreptitiously used it instead of a friends house across the road. There’s no running water on this property, it’s the eldest lads job each morning to fetch water for the kitchen and toilet. When it rains they collect as much water as possible, not because there’s any particular shortage, merely because it saves a lot of hard work. (Photo: The rather small and tightly packed family home of Cookie and Din Din - Valencia, Carcar, Cebu Island, Philippines)

And the kids do work, from as young as seven or eight most are given set tasks to do each day. There is no messing around, and no argument, they accept their allotted roles and do them without complaint. Even Jaslyn, the seven year old, automatically sweeps through the house every morning. She isn’t actually the family’s daughter, rather the daughter of my friend, who came to live here when Zoe lost her way a bit in Manila, courtesy of Meth Amphetamine and family bereavement. Maybe that’s a bit personal to gliby announce to the world at large, but I’m not exactly a prime example of saying no to drugs in my life, and I understand bereavement. I thought she could do with an understanding soul to help her move forward again, her intentions were there, but the means to do so were beyond her. Sucker or not, to see the pleasure as mother and daughter were reunited was worth the effort. And Zoe’s family here have been perfect hosts, welcoming me into their home with every courtesy manageable. (Photo: Zoe with Daughter soaking up the sun - Buko Beach, Sibonga, Cebu Island)

There are no foreigners around the village, I’m the only one, and at the moment the talk of the town. It bugs me though that everyone is talking of the Americano, damn that really bugs me. The kids love it though, when we arrived the first thing they did was to raise my hand to their foreheads, the sign of respect to your elders. Then the extremely emotional reunion stole my heart. Income for the family is mainly from a general-purpose workshop across the road, a close friend owns it but Din Din, the husband runs it. It caters for mechanics, welding, spray painting, tyres and a whole host of small engineering type jobs. They also grow a range of crops, mainly to feed themselves but they sell the excess to supplement their income. Since I’ve got here the kids have been all over me, wherever I go I’ve a trail of shadows. The first morning here we took them to school, I didn’t have enough hands to deal with the demand. When we took a hike to the local bathing spot it was easier to split into male and female groups, then the two of us could deal with four kids easily. The eldest, Ike, copes for himself. Hey, he’s a teenager, though much more capable of dealing with life alone than the average youth at home. ( The four youngest kids - Buko Beach, Sibonga, Cebu Island)

Actually the kids love being seen in my presence, they don’t cockily lap it up but you can see it gives them pleasure to accompany me, partly due to being the centre of attention. It was like a family outing going to the communal bathing area, a concrete trough with a clean flow of water, to wash clothes and bodies from, and collect fresh water. We provided quite a spectacle, dreads are liked here, they never receive distasteful looks, only appreciative comments, but it was so much more than hair that none had seen in real life. The scene at the small rural bathing area was one of amazement for the locals who came along, most stopped in their tracks and stood watching, mouths agape. It isn’t as if they haven’t seen a white man in their midst, I doubt if any have ventured out and bathed publically before. How I love village gossip, it’s an integral part of village life, and no different in Valencia. It amuses me no end to be the talk of the town, especially as it’s without having done anything untoward. There is actually another foreigner in the area, he owns a house just outside the village but doesn’t actually live there. No-one can understand why, he’s built a mansion by Philippines standards but stays, with his Filipina wife, out of town in a hotel. There doesn’t appear to be any effort made to integrate with the community, which is a close and lively one. (Photo: A rather scrappy beach looking pretty once the water covers up the debris - Buko Beach, Sibonga, Cebu Island)

Family first would be a good statement to describe priorities here. It goes much deeper though, however little you have you share with those around, especially with those who have less than you do. As we sat down to a family meal the other night, it was shared with others who were simply hanging around at the time. A passer by was invited to partake of a bowl of chocolate porridge, because it was pouring with rain and he walked past wet and cold. The western world should take an example of the philosophy the provincial people here live by, they wouldn’t see their neighbours starve or go without if it was in their power to prevent it. I’m prejudice, but few city folk share these admirable qualities. The respect shown to elders is also a shining example, you don’t cast off those who have already made their contribution to society. Look at our world, we dump our parents in homes when they get infirm. We deprive the most needy of basic provision, we label them as lazy or no good, listen to the poison words of cost cutting governments and turn our sympathy away for them. (Photo: Cookie, Angel Princess and Din Din appreciating a tranquil scene - Buko Beach, Sibonga, Cebu Island)

We all went for a day at the beach yesterday, seven kids and five adults, with a months supply of food to ensure we didn’t go hungry. It wasn’t quite that bad, not considering how much the average Filipino eats. Wow, they consume vast quantities of rice, normally it’s supplemented with quite small portions of meat or fish. My presence has marked a slight change, they’re trying to cater for me, however much I insist they don’t. Not in the type of food, they’re surprised at the absence of fuss over what I eat, I’ll even eat dried fish, including their heads. I don’t object to trying whatever they put in front of me, and even eat it tidily with my hands. Family meals are quite amazing, a huge banana leaf is laid out, a mound of rice spread across it with a couple of dishes to add a bit of flavour and protein, then every body tucks in. Yes, the occasional teenager takes rather large portions, but there never seems too little to go around. If they try to be too greedy someone will simply move some of the food away from them, and there will not be any complaint. As you may be able to tell, I’m quite taken with life in the provinces. I will return after my trip to Borneo, and probably spend a few months here. It won’t be the first time I’ve wondered whether I could settle somewhere, it is the first time I’ve considered returning and giving it a go. Not that I’ve made any promises or committed myself, but it might well be worth a try. (Photo: Sedrel, Sedser, Rael, Cookie, Zoe, Leo, Kurt, Ike, Angel and Jaslyn after the family outing - Buko Beach, Sibonga, Cebu Island)

There seems no end to the generosity of the people around here. Barring food and accommodation, my every desire is catered for. I wanted to ride into town, so was given a scooter to use. I fancied riding Din Din’s rat bike, so he immediately obliged. That was fun, it’s a 150cc Kawasaki cobbled together and run without air filter or baffles. It sounds great, crackling and popping as you thrash it through the reverse gearbox. The front brake lever is an inch long, giving only a touch of brake if you squeeze as hard as possible with the one finger you can use on it. Another guy turned up on a 200cc Ninja replica, Zoe told him I fancied a ride, ‘sure,’ he said, ‘here’s the key’. And away I went, for a fast and furious ride round the twisty country roads. He was so pleased to hear I liked his bike. I was dumbfounded at the trust he put in me, unable to imagine people at home giving a complete stranger the same honour. (Photo: Yours truly, happy after a burn on a stranger's pride and joy - Barangay Valencia,  Carcar, Cebu Island)