Being only a day away from flying back to Borneo I hope it lasts
longer this time. There are no reasons for being waylaid back to the
Philippines early now. All problems there are solved and everyone is healthy and happy. After a mysterious fault occurring with my camera, I’ve managed
to get that fixed as well. It meant a protracted stay in Cebu City, but I eventually
found a camera repair shop and it was done in a day. I’m so relieved because
Borneo without a decent camera didn’t bear thinking about.
Though I made the most of Cebu I was so relieved to get out
the big, dirty city. Still tempted by Palawan again I never the less headed for
Siquijor, the voodoo isle of the Philippines. At least that’s the reputation it
has, for me it was more the promise of lovely beaches and good snorkelling. Of
course by the time I set off I had an unhealed tattoo, which still needed at
least five days to heal. Not to be perturbed I went anyway, I needed some peace
and quiet. Being only a matter of hours away Siquijor fit the bill nicely.
Actually the prospect of something otherworldly was quite enticing. As it
turned out it wasn’t quite as enchanting, but in the circumstances it played
it’s part well. First of all there was the appalling weather. As the ferry went
crashing from the top of the swell the loading ramp would boom as it crashed
back into its couplings. Reverberating throughout the steel hull the whole boat
vibrated, which was quite scary the first time it happened. But after a few
times there was obviously nothing amiss, none of the crew were panicking anyway,
so I decided to follow their example. (Photo: The one sunset worth watching - Siquijor, Negros, Philippines)
Without disillusioning people I have to point out that
Siquijor island is no longer a quaint little backwater with witch-doctors,
natural remedies and little else but beautiful beaches fringed with awesome
coral. As far as the coast goes it’s well developed. There are a lot of
resorts, though overly big, and some very plush private homes. Most of these
are foreign owned and the ex-pat community is well established. Saying that,
most the guys I met (yes, most have settled with Filipinas) were a pleasure to
spend time with, and I don’t normally go in for ex-pat hangouts. They also
proved to be excellent drinking buddies, which must have been what I was
looking for as I made the most of it. My first night there I got blathered,
utterly. Only intending to have one or two drinks (I know, famous last words),
but found myself in a large group, the beer was flowing and I had a couple more
lined up along the table. Why, oh why, did I start drinking Redhorse? It’s a
lethally strong local brew that’s literally knocks me off my feet, it must be
treated with care. When I fell over the second time someone suggested I go
home, in a friendly way. I think they lost count of how many times I actually
hit the deck. Eventually I stumbled in the direction of home, the guy from my
guesthouse found me sprawled in a puddle, unable to get to my feet, and dragged
me home. (Photo: Ugly mug sporting his bruised and blackened eye - Get Wrecked beach bar, Siquijor)
It wasn’t the best of examples to set on my first night, and
I never lived it down. I awoke with my face stuck to the pillow and wondered at
first whether someone had punched me. The scrapes and grazes around the eye
seemed to indicate it was purely the outcome of falling over. Not that I was
likely to get in a fight, I’m normally a happy drunk. And so it proved when I
returned to hoots of laughter the following day, no-one was surprised at the
state of my eye. For a week I never even got close to becoming unsteady on my
feet, which was good because it rained continuously and there was little else to
do but eat and drink. My main endeavour was to plough through a 2 in 1 Wilbur
Smith novel, and enjoy watching women’s volleyball on cable TV. But then came
my birthday, which is meant to be a time to celebrate, or if you’re that way
inclined, to drown your sorrows. So celebrate I did, in good style, returning
many of the myriad of drinks I’d been treated to the previous Friday. Bugger me
if I didn’t get in a state again. I stayed off the Redhorse, but still got so
blotto I couldn’t remember getting home. Hey, at least I had no more cuts and
bruises to add to my slowly diminishing shiner. And I managed to be up and
ready for the first ferry, before my hangover even hit. (Photo: I'm not waving I'm drowning, fisherman in distress - Between Tampi and Bato, Visayas, Philippines)
I saw very little of the island in that week, due to constant
rain, and my departure was similar to my arrival. It was blowing a hooley and
the ferries were diverted to the sheltered harbour of Larena. For once I wasn’t
the only foreigner on board, but being the experienced one it was fun to see
the consternation on their faces when the booming reverberations shook through
the hull. The second ferry, off Negros, was cancelled due to driving waves
breaking over the port, so I had to divert for a second time. But I should
count myself lucky because I wasn’t the poor sucker stranded on his upturned
fishing boat. We had to heave to, change direction and rescue him. Through the
throngs crowding the rails I couldn’t see what finally happened. I assume they
lifted him and boat from the water, emptied his Bangka (small fishing boat) of
water and set them both loose again. There was certainly no sign of him or boat
on board when we reached our destination. It was unlikely he’d have left his
boat adrift at sea, not only would it have been his livelihood, it would have
been his means to replace it. (Photo: Place your bets barbarians please - Cockfighting tournament, Valencia, Cebu)
Cockfighting mmm, well I’ve seen it before. It neither
enthrals nor upsets me to any great degree. Cockerels are aggressive, and are
generally spoiling for a fight anyway. Species who attack
each other are generally rival males, which is nature’s way and it helps strengthen
genetic stock. It shocks me when males get so incensed they fight to the death, it’s
dumb, but viewing it as sport is sick. As far as Cock fighting goes though,
I don’t believe the blood and gore is the main reason. Put simply, the main
kick most people get is the rush of gambling, these contests are nothing more
than venues for gambling. In general I think the bloodlust is secondary, it
merely heightens the excitement. Maybe I see it too simplistically, but the
eagerness here is strongest when there is money at stake. Everyone I’ve spoken
to talks about the money, how much they’ve won or lost. They never seem
bothered about the details, of seeing razor claw or beak tearing and gouging.
No discussion of the tactics or strengths of each bird takes place, simply the
financial gain or loss.
Not being completely sure I have it fully sussed, I’ll still try to explain
the betting process. First of all the two birds are brought in, they’re
provoked and goaded into aggressiveness with what amounts to a sparring
partner. Owners hold their birds, letting the sparring partner peck their
necks, their backsides. Holding their tail feathers they present the spar just
out of reach, trying to rile them up. It has a twofold purpose, to provoke
aggressiveness for the fight and also to show punters their bird’s prowess. Once
both birds have gone through this process the preliminary betting begins. It
would appear that a private bet between owners is sorted first. Between owners
and backers, or supporters, from the crowd, a straight bet is settled. It’s how
the owners make money fighting their cockerels. When that comes to a
satisfactory conclusion the bookies step into the fray, and don’t they just
raise the tempo. They squat within the arena, until their turn comes, at which
time they leap up and shout out which bird they’ll take bets for and at what
odds. Odds aren’t always offered, often they are set as even! Obviously a bird
with a recognised succession of wins will be the favourite, at least against an
unknown opponent. The clamour for taking bets is loud and enthusiastic, how the
bookies remember all the bets they take is beyond me because they write nothing
down.
Betting over, and the sheaths are removed from the attached
claw razor. These are about three inches long, the care taken handling the birds
once the blades are exposed suggests they are actually razor sharp. Without
further ado the birds are held and thrust at each other to spur them on, before
being dropped on the floor facing each other. All fights were to the death, and
all had the razors attached. When they become entangled an official steps in to
lift them apart and set them at each other again. He’ll lift them again and
again for another face off, until at least one lies motionless, clearly dead.
As long as they both live they’ll be forced to fight, even if the fight has
gone out of them both they’ll be thrust at each other, forced to continue. On rare
occasions a draw might be declared, if no amount of forcing them will make
either continue fighting, yet they both still live. The fights never lasted
long, and no draws were declared while I watched. But I only saw a few bouts, just
couldn’t see the point, it did nothing for me, not even the excitement of the
crowd. (Photo: Cock of the walk - Cockfighting tournament, Valencia, Cebu)
It is legal in the Philippines, which must be one of the very few countries it still is. The only other time I witnessed such an event was in Cuba, where it's highly illegal. That time I nearly got beaten up for trying to take a picture, thankfully it wasn't the case this time. Personally I can't see the big attraction watching animals or humans ripping each other to shreds, though skilful use of martial arts can be quite impressive. Neither do I see the excitement of gambling, I can think of so many more things to do with my money. I nice pair of shoes makes more sense, or a flight ticket somewhere.
Though I made the most of Cebu I was so relieved to get out
the big, dirty city. Still tempted by Palawan again I never the less headed for
Siquijor, the voodoo isle of the Philippines. At least that’s the reputation it
has, for me it was more the promise of lovely beaches and good snorkelling. Of
course by the time I set off I had an unhealed tattoo, which still needed at
least five days to heal. Not to be perturbed I went anyway, I needed some peace
and quiet. Being only a matter of hours away Siquijor fit the bill nicely.
Actually the prospect of something otherworldly was quite enticing. As it
turned out it wasn’t quite as enchanting, but in the circumstances it played
it’s part well. First of all there was the appalling weather. As the ferry went
crashing from the top of the swell the loading ramp would boom as it crashed
back into its couplings. Reverberating throughout the steel hull the whole boat
vibrated, which was quite scary the first time it happened. But after a few
times there was obviously nothing amiss, none of the crew were panicking anyway,
so I decided to follow their example. (Photo: The one sunset worth watching - Siquijor, Negros, Philippines)Without disillusioning people I have to point out that
Siquijor island is no longer a quaint little backwater with witch-doctors,
natural remedies and little else but beautiful beaches fringed with awesome
coral. As far as the coast goes it’s well developed. There are a lot of
resorts, though overly big, and some very plush private homes. Most of these
are foreign owned and the ex-pat community is well established. Saying that,
most the guys I met (yes, most have settled with Filipinas) were a pleasure to
spend time with, and I don’t normally go in for ex-pat hangouts. They also
proved to be excellent drinking buddies, which must have been what I was
looking for as I made the most of it. My first night there I got blathered,
utterly. Only intending to have one or two drinks (I know, famous last words),
but found myself in a large group, the beer was flowing and I had a couple more
lined up along the table. Why, oh why, did I start drinking Redhorse? It’s a
lethally strong local brew that’s literally knocks me off my feet, it must be
treated with care. When I fell over the second time someone suggested I go
home, in a friendly way. I think they lost count of how many times I actually
hit the deck. Eventually I stumbled in the direction of home, the guy from my
guesthouse found me sprawled in a puddle, unable to get to my feet, and dragged
me home. (Photo: Ugly mug sporting his bruised and blackened eye - Get Wrecked beach bar, Siquijor)It wasn’t the best of examples to set on my first night, and
I never lived it down. I awoke with my face stuck to the pillow and wondered at
first whether someone had punched me. The scrapes and grazes around the eye
seemed to indicate it was purely the outcome of falling over. Not that I was
likely to get in a fight, I’m normally a happy drunk. And so it proved when I
returned to hoots of laughter the following day, no-one was surprised at the
state of my eye. For a week I never even got close to becoming unsteady on my
feet, which was good because it rained continuously and there was little else to
do but eat and drink. My main endeavour was to plough through a 2 in 1 Wilbur
Smith novel, and enjoy watching women’s volleyball on cable TV. But then came
my birthday, which is meant to be a time to celebrate, or if you’re that way
inclined, to drown your sorrows. So celebrate I did, in good style, returning
many of the myriad of drinks I’d been treated to the previous Friday. Bugger me
if I didn’t get in a state again. I stayed off the Redhorse, but still got so
blotto I couldn’t remember getting home. Hey, at least I had no more cuts and
bruises to add to my slowly diminishing shiner. And I managed to be up and
ready for the first ferry, before my hangover even hit. (Photo: I'm not waving I'm drowning, fisherman in distress - Between Tampi and Bato, Visayas, Philippines)I saw very little of the island in that week, due to constant
rain, and my departure was similar to my arrival. It was blowing a hooley and
the ferries were diverted to the sheltered harbour of Larena. For once I wasn’t
the only foreigner on board, but being the experienced one it was fun to see
the consternation on their faces when the booming reverberations shook through
the hull. The second ferry, off Negros, was cancelled due to driving waves
breaking over the port, so I had to divert for a second time. But I should
count myself lucky because I wasn’t the poor sucker stranded on his upturned
fishing boat. We had to heave to, change direction and rescue him. Through the
throngs crowding the rails I couldn’t see what finally happened. I assume they
lifted him and boat from the water, emptied his Bangka (small fishing boat) of
water and set them both loose again. There was certainly no sign of him or boat
on board when we reached our destination. It was unlikely he’d have left his
boat adrift at sea, not only would it have been his livelihood, it would have
been his means to replace it. (Photo: Place your bets barbarians please - Cockfighting tournament, Valencia, Cebu)
Stopping en-route to Cebu and my flight to Borneo I called
in at Valencia, just in time for the annual cockfighting tournament.
Cockfighting mmm, well I’ve seen it before. It neither
enthrals nor upsets me to any great degree. Cockerels are aggressive, and are
generally spoiling for a fight anyway. Species who attack
each other are generally rival males, which is nature’s way and it helps strengthen
genetic stock. It shocks me when males get so incensed they fight to the death, it’s
dumb, but viewing it as sport is sick. As far as Cock fighting goes though,
I don’t believe the blood and gore is the main reason. Put simply, the main
kick most people get is the rush of gambling, these contests are nothing more
than venues for gambling. In general I think the bloodlust is secondary, it
merely heightens the excitement. Maybe I see it too simplistically, but the
eagerness here is strongest when there is money at stake. Everyone I’ve spoken
to talks about the money, how much they’ve won or lost. They never seem
bothered about the details, of seeing razor claw or beak tearing and gouging.
No discussion of the tactics or strengths of each bird takes place, simply the
financial gain or loss. Not being completely sure I have it fully sussed, I’ll still try to explain
the betting process. First of all the two birds are brought in, they’re
provoked and goaded into aggressiveness with what amounts to a sparring
partner. Owners hold their birds, letting the sparring partner peck their
necks, their backsides. Holding their tail feathers they present the spar just
out of reach, trying to rile them up. It has a twofold purpose, to provoke
aggressiveness for the fight and also to show punters their bird’s prowess. Once
both birds have gone through this process the preliminary betting begins. It
would appear that a private bet between owners is sorted first. Between owners
and backers, or supporters, from the crowd, a straight bet is settled. It’s how
the owners make money fighting their cockerels. When that comes to a
satisfactory conclusion the bookies step into the fray, and don’t they just
raise the tempo. They squat within the arena, until their turn comes, at which
time they leap up and shout out which bird they’ll take bets for and at what
odds. Odds aren’t always offered, often they are set as even! Obviously a bird
with a recognised succession of wins will be the favourite, at least against an
unknown opponent. The clamour for taking bets is loud and enthusiastic, how the
bookies remember all the bets they take is beyond me because they write nothing
down. It is legal in the Philippines, which must be one of the very few countries it still is. The only other time I witnessed such an event was in Cuba, where it's highly illegal. That time I nearly got beaten up for trying to take a picture, thankfully it wasn't the case this time. Personally I can't see the big attraction watching animals or humans ripping each other to shreds, though skilful use of martial arts can be quite impressive. Neither do I see the excitement of gambling, I can think of so many more things to do with my money. I nice pair of shoes makes more sense, or a flight ticket somewhere.
