The death of my MacBook Air

Just as things were going swimmingly well the bottom dropped out of my world, my laptop died on me. It didn’t crash, there were no simple glitches, it just upped and died. I shut it down one night, the next morning it was as dead as a doornail. Any other make of computer might have been repairable, though I doubt it, the Mac needed a competent repair centre. Roused rudely from my paradisiacal reverie it took me a day for the facts to sink in, during which time I desperately kept trying in vain to kick some life into it. I’ve heard tell that losing one’s computer can put one at a slight loss in their lives. For me it was damned near a tragedy; bearing in mind the type of real life tragedies that have beset me in recent years I can’t bring myself to compare it with any of those, but it still left me aghast and more than a bit flustered. I thought of continuing my travels, bugger the writing, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I had to tear myself away from Port Barton, desperately hoping I could find a fix in Palawan. (Photo: Simple fishing methods - Port Barton, Palawan)

Despite only slim hopes of a local fix, I tried everywhere in Puerto Princesa. Apple Macs are quite common there, so the premise was that someone should be able to repair it, or at least give a diagnosis as to what was wrong. Most did no more than shake their head at the sight of it, one was amiable enough, but as I watched him try and force an inappropriate tool into the special shaped bolts I thought better of proceeding. Not giving up hope I tracked down every single possibility, and at my last hope found an up-market repair shop in the plush new shopping mall out of town. As with anything concerning AppleMacs, it didn’t come cheap, but they claimed they could let me know in two to three days. Taking into mind the Filipino concept of time I wasn’t surprised to find it took six days. (Photo: Simple housing - Port Barton, Palawan)

So I had a week twiddling my thumbs in Puerto, with little to entertain myself except good company at the Reggae Bar and a ream of books. Days were spent lazing around in preference to sweating my cobs off walking the streets. I did go for a dive one day, after being offered a virtual by Thadz, a fairly newly qualified Divemaster, whilst swilling copious amounts of beer the night before. I must admit, when I awoke the last thing I felt like was diving, I felt awful. My hangover was so bad I couldn’t even put my own kit together, which was embarrassing after declaring the night before you can tell a competent diver by watching them kit up. But we got there, eventually, and waded out until deep enough to don our fins and take the plunge. The water was like pea soup, visibility was negligible, I had no timepiece and no depth gauge. I felt anything but competent, and those first five minutes had me wishing I hadn’t bothered. (Photo: Cloud formations from plane - High above the Philippines)

Head pounding, and nearly gagging into my regulator, I truly was not fit to dive. But why go to the effort of getting it together and then wimping out. So I stuck with it, you know, the glory of being a Brit and all that, stiff upper lip old boy! Actually, for a shore dive it was OK as far as outcrops of coral go. True, the colours looked diminished; constant rain tends to do that. But there were decent numbers of fish and some I couldn’t remember seeing before. We encountered a triggerfish, trying to give us hassle for encroaching on its territory. In the muddy seabed we found a couple of bright nudibranchs, one of the main delights of muck diving. And then I found myself alone, after little more than a quick look at another interesting critter. I waited a couple of minutes, then swam fifty metres in the direction Thadz had been going. Good sense dictates you give it five minutes then surface to regroup. I guess I left it a lot longer, eventually making for shallower water before surfacing. I couldn’t have carried on any longer, I was desperately trying not to puke into my reg by that time. (Photo: My bedroom is the pavement - Manila, Philippines)

After that experience I was a bit more conservative with my drinking, and avoided what had been promised as a full-on night. Just as well too, the following day I got the news the motherboard on my MacBook was buggered. I’d wasted a week waiting around, my only alternative was a trip back to Manila, a last ditch attempt to find an approved repair centre and have a qualified diagnosis. Who could I blame but myself though? While in the Andaman Islands I’d knocked a cup of coffee over, directly onto the keyboard. At the time it amazed me it still worked, it had certainly picked the worst possible time to die. So back to Manila It was, determined to sort it out one-way or the other. I vowed not to hang around in the city, just to drop it off and get out to more peaceful surroundings. If only things had been that simple, but of course with me they rarely are. Arriving back in Manila I got a very happy welcome back by the few people I’d befriended before. And here I’ve stayed ever since. (Photo: Tattooed snake charmers - Manila)

The bad news is my MacBook Air is no longer, worst still, there are no replacement Airs. Stocks have depleted, in my mind to bolster the sale of the new Optic display MacBooks, which are 50% higher priced again than the Airs. It could be worse, life I mean, at least I’ve been really enjoying myself in Manila. Once again the company has been pretty good and the beer flows freely. Actually the strong local brew is Red Horse, at 7% it is strong and hits you like a steam train. The hangovers are horrid, and I can’t handle consecutive nights pouring it down my throat. Entertainment has proved interesting, ad-hoc pole dancing in the local bar, cat fights between the street girls and the occasional tourist. A Belgian guy, from the kindness of his heart, allowed one of the girls to use the shower in his room. She then expected money, even though there’d been no form of contact or promise of it. For some reason I got caught in the middle of the ensuing argument. My only solution was to give her 50 pesos and tell her not to be silly, to go away with enough to feed herself. It sort of worked, after plenty of caterwauling. (Photo: Boys just like to have fun - a couple of urchins, Manila)

My worst fear was to have lost the work I’ve done since getting here, a lot of messing around saw my files recovered and loaded into my new MacBook Air. I managed to track one down, so it’s all business again. It will probably delay my trip to Borneo, because I’m a month behind schedule. As I’m having such a good time it doesn’t concern me, life is about making the most of each day and at the moment I’m enjoying it immensely.(Photo: My adopted son looking intellectually belligerent - Manila)

Laptop hell

It has been a while, but the next installment will be coming soon. My laptop has died on me, though I'm about to fork out for another. Take care and I'll be back online very shortly.

Palawan – The last frontier

I was relieved to leave the environs of Manila, despite it having some points of interest, it is after all simply another crowded city, overflowing with slums, poverty and prostitution. Crime rates are high and even in the tourist quarter destitution is rife. One pleasant surprise is the efforts made to keep a semblance of cleanliness around the streets. I didn’t venture into the worst of the slums, they maybe not completely out of bounds, but visiting them is not really a sight-seeing tour. During my wanderings I found everyone polite and friendly, even when turning away the beggars and hustlers there was no bad feelings, it was all part and parcel of every day life. The last twenty-four hours a continuous downpour of torrential rain put paid to casual wanderings. Apparently the rain didn’t stop, within a couple of days of leaving vast areas of the city flooded, up to waist height. My timing was damned near perfect. (Photo: No laughing matter, they're taking a leaf out the American's book - Manila airport, Philippines)

Flights are dirt cheap, and hassle free. When all passengers are boarded the planes take off, often well before schedule. The rain was so heavy that umbrellas were provided from the transport bus up the steps into the plane. Ground staff, soaked to the bone, set up a relay to allow us a virtually dry boarding. I wasn’t going to bother, until faced with a virtual wall of water at the door of the bus. Thankfully arriving at Puerto Princesa, Palawan’s capital, bright sunshine welcomed us, albeit a hot and humid sunshine. I had to laugh at the antics of the only other white guy on the plane. After a brief greeting between us, and the young European woman, he turned his back on me and monopolised her complete attention. The last I saw of them they were queuing up to procure private transport up north, to the very busy resort of El Nido. Maybe it was short sighted of them not to check whether I might be headed in the same direction, therefore sharing the cost of transport. I got the impression the growing bulge in his trousers was worth the extra money to him. (Photo: Edge of slum area in, overlooked by very plush hotel - Puerto Prinseca, Palawan)

Puerto is a relatively small, but bustling, island capital. Jeepney’s (gaily decorated, open sided minibuses) and tricycles (motorbike and sidecar combos) make up the bulk of the traffic. To be honest they’re so cheap it almost makes a mockery of walking, the locals don’t. My main reason for staying a few days was to draw out sufficient money to last at least a month in Port Barton, a small fishing village on the west coast. My guesthouse was situated on the edge of the shantytown occupied by the poverty stricken fishermen. Advice not to wander alone through the area came too late, I’d been there and done it already. Personally I failed to see the problem, having sat and consumed home brewed wine with a group of old guys. They were delighted to share their booze and take the opportunity to converse with a foreigner. They hold their age well, one of them was within a month of being the same age as me, he wasn’t as grey either. He shrugged his shoulders at this, ‘I’m Filipino,’ was his simple reasoning. (Photo: Economy class travel by tricycle, eight people all told - The road to Roxas, North Palawan)

There are scores of simple street stalls, serving a choice of pre-prepared dishes at rock bottom prices, less than a quid (£1 for the uninitiated) with rice included. Invariably there’s no telling what each dish consists of. My first attempt tasted fine, until I came upon a hand sized slab of fatty, boiled pigskin. I had to at least try some, it was horrid. The locals insist the fat holds all the flavour, I won’t argue with them but from now on I’ll leave the flavoursome parts to them. And my second cheap meal? It was much better, entrails cooked in pig’s blood. Don’t be squeamish, it was little more than minced black pudding. Though I must admit the vendor was surprised at my choice, and kept checking that it was OK as I scoffed the lot. The only, slightly, iffy bits were the little lumps of cartilage, they tended to be a bit crunchy. If I’m honest, the Philippines isn’t exactly renowned for its culinary delights. (Photo: Sticky underfoot - Road to Port Barton. Palawan)

Being determined not to piss up all of my time over here, I only hit the bars one night in Puerto. At the invite of the owner, a ‘geezer’ from the Isle of Wight called G, I spent most the night at his Reggae bar. We finished off at a club hosting a variety of cover bands, damned if I can remember what music they were covering, but they were fronted by a couple of very attractive young Filipinas, who also had excellent voices. Needless to say the beer kept flowing and the night took on a definitely cheery, if raucous, overtone. The dwarf (forgive me if this phrase is politically incorrect) who waddled onto stage was simply a punter, but was welcomed like a long lost friend. The shapely lady boy from amongst our midst made the most of joining him, she went down a storm and had plenty of young guys from the audience trying their damnedest to catch a glimpse of what was barely hidden under an ultra short, and tight skirt. All in all a great night! The last I remembered was sitting with the short fella, arms around each other’s shoulders sharing a beer. (Photo: Playtime when the catch comes in - Port Barton, Palawan)

So you could say Puerto was pretty uneventful. I won’t expand on that particular evening’s events, mainly because of run-ins with the ugly antics of seedy sex tourists. I’ve said enough about such people plenty of times in the past, they turn my stomach, so let’s just leave it at that. Boy wasn’t I ever hungover the following morning though. I’m sure glad it wasn’t my last night in the city, travelling for five hours on a clapped out old bus would not have been much fun. As It was I had a couple of days to recover. Acclimatising to the tropics again took it out of me more than the beer (honest it did), all I’ve needed to do is sit down and try reading and I fall into a deep slumber. Is it worse as I get older? Can’t say I’ve noticed either way, I think in days gone by I was more likely to celebrate on arrival abroad than I am now; says the man who’s just been elaborating about his drunken debauchery. (Photo: Company in the shower, a rather large friend - Port Barton, Palawan)

But now onto Port Barton, though it wasn’t quite as simple as that! The road to get here is appalling. At this time of year it’s not usual for the bus to need pushing out of the mud, we were lucky due to the exceptionally good skills of our driver. There again, he does make the trip every day, one direction or the other. The place is a sleepy little fishing village, with a long and
beautiful sandy beach that’s excellent for swimming. Due to this a well-spaced string of guesthouses have sprung up around the crescent of sand. They are not overly ugly, most use local designs and materials, and fit in nicely with the environment. The beach is clean, there are more locals walking along it than tourists, more fishing boats than deck chairs (actually there are no deck chairs on the beach at all), most the people in the water are local kids. Though at the moment it’s low season, even in the height of the season there are comparatively few foreigners. But you know, it all adds to the laid back feel of the place. There are no banks, no ATMs, no multi-storied buildings. It has a lovely mix of tourists and locals, everyone seems happy and content, and if the pace was any slower we’d be going backwards in time. I made the right choice by coming here first, but will I be able to leave the place. Only time will tell! (Photo: Watching the tide come in - Port Barton beach, Palawan)