I had been told that after Catbalogan, the road became very hilly and difficult with long, hard climbs. That turned out to be true to a certain extent. The most difficult climb by far was the first one right out of the city. This is a common pattern. There might be a gentle grade on the roads as they climbed hills and mountains. But immediately before and after a town or city, the grades on the road can be extremely steep. This particular road was so steep that I feared for the chain on my bicycle. I was still fresh and full of energy and my legs were capable of powering me up the slope, but I had to apply so much pressure in first gear that I imagined the chain snapping. I was tempted to get off and push my bike just to be safe, but I was feeling stubborn, and I kept riding.

There was a pleasant series of mid-sized barangays along the road: Jiabong, Motiong, Paranas, Hinabangan, Calbiga, Pinabacdao, and many more. I was taking my time, and I cycled into them all and rode around a few of the streets. You never know what you are going to find by doing that. People were friendly, though there was a lot of laughter and teasing and unwanted remarks about the hot sun. People pointed at the sun above and then made a motion with their hands to indicate that sun beating down. “It’s really, really hot!” they were saying. I could only agree with them and wonder why they were telling me this. The point, of course, was that they were telling me that I was out of my mind to be riding my bicycle and that a sensible person would be safe in the shade, lounging like them.

I was timing things to arrive in Tacloban before my tourist visa expired. It didn’t expire for a few days yet, so I had plenty of time and I intended to divide the trip into at least two days, maybe three. With this in mind, I thought it would be nice to stay in Calbiga.

Before I got there, though, I had another small adventure. I had pulled into the barangay of Hinabangan just to look around. When I did so, a young guy got my attention and pointed up at the clouds. He was warning me that it was going to rain and that I should find shelter. I stopped to chat with him and I dismissed his concerns. The skies were not that dark and I didn’t think it would rain. And if it did rain, I imagined there would just be a few sprinkles. I’m often told something is too far, too hot, too difficult, too something, and I thought this was the same thing. I told this guy that I wasn’t afraid of a few sprinkles of rain. This guy insisted, though. He even stepped off the road underneath the overhang at the front of a house and insisted that I do the same. The owner of the house came out to talk to me and he said that I should get under cover as well. I finally gave in, and I rolled my bicycle sort of under the roof and then sat down. Just a minute or two later, it started to rain and it rained hard. Apparently, when a local person in the Philippines tells you that it is about to rain, you better take them seriously. They know the weather patterns. The back end of my bike was still sort of sticking out in the rain and I got up to get out my rain covers. I was standing out there in the rain like an idiot trying to remember where I put the rain covers when the owner of the house came to the rescue with a big tarp. We unfolded the tarp and put it over the entire bike and then I took a seat back on the porch, marveling at the downpour. This was no shower. This was typhoon-like rain.

The man’s name was Rogelio, but everyone called him Ogie. He had lived in this house his entire life, but he now also had a shop and a house in Manila. He made his own sports clothes by hand on sewing machines and sold it in the shop. In fact, there was a sewing machine on the porch, and a woman sat there working the entire time that I sheltered there from the rain. The man had another sewing machine in the house, and I assume he had more of them in Manila. He was a very friendly man and he sent a young girl out in the rain to get cold drinks and biscuits for us.

After Hinabangan, I arrived in Calbiga. It started to rain very hard just when I arrived in that barangay, and I took shelter under a “waiting shed” along with a bunch of other people. When it stopped raining, I got back on my bike and rode around the town. It was fiesta time in Calbiga and the whole town was gearing up. There were human figures like scarecrows all over the town. I had passed a number of these on the main road. They were both spooky and interesting. Most were about the same size as a person but some were twenty feet tall – giant scarecrows with big smiles and leaves sticking out of their heads.

It was great that there was a fiesta in Calbiga and I looked forward to spending the night there. Unfortunately, it was not to be. I rode around for a long time trying to locate some kind of accommodation – a room or a camping spot – but it just didn’t happen. The town even had a lodging house and a homestay. I visited both of them and was told that they were fully booked because of the fiesta. I tried to get permission to put up my tent at either place, but it didn’t happen. I went to the municipal building and spoke to people there. I went to the police station. I went everywhere I could think of, but no luck came my way. I just couldn’t find the magic words to find a place to stay. It was impossible to just camp somewhere. The town was far too compact and crowded for that. Besides, even if I did just throw up my tent in the bush (a difficult prospect to find any bush), I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the fiesta. I wouldn’t be able to leave my tent. I’d have to stay there and guard my belongings. So things just didn’t work out in Calbiga. It was disappointing. I spoke to everyone I could think of and pushed as hard as I could, but things just didn’t come together and I had no choice but to cycle out of town. While there, I stocked up on water, bread, pasta, and pasta sauce. I already had some bananas. So I was all set to camp anywhere if a spot presented itself out in the countryside.

A few kilometers past Calbiga, I spotted a large group of men having a kind of picnic. They called out “Hey, Joe!” and waved me over. I turned my bicycle through the gates onto this plot of land and joined the men for a drink. They had a few bottles of brandy going, and they got a glass for me and I joined them for a few shots. I was hoping to use this contact to come up with permission to camp somewhere, so I wasn’t worried about drinking. I didn’t think I’d be cycling that much more.

These men started asking me the usual questions – the “interrogation” – and I worked the conversation around to my staying the night in the barangay. There was a great deal of discussion and confusion about this. A man who seemed to be the leader of the group said that I could just camp at the police station across the road. Most agreed with him, but then a few others said that it wasn’t possible. I would have to speak to the barangay captain first in order to get permission. Others mentioned the mayor. The land we were on was, in fact, the mayor’s place. The building behind us was the mayor’s house. This man was a doctor and he had lived and worked in Canada for 14 years. Some men said that I could just put up my tent right there in the mayor’s compound. All we needed to do was speak to the mayor. The conversation went around and around, but the faction in favor of speaking to the barangay captain won out in the end. One young man was dispatched to go with me on his motorcycle in search of the barangay captain. This was done in just a few minutes, and the barangay captain brought me over to the local fire station and said that I could stay there.

At first, I resisted. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on. Did they mean that I should put up my tent on the asphalt parking area in front of the fire station? It hardly seemed preferable to putting up my tent on the grass at the mayor’s compound. The idea, it finally emerged, was for me to sleep inside the fire station on one of the bunks for the firefighters. I wasn’t thrilled by that idea either. The problem is that by the end of the day, I’m generally quite tired and hot and dirty and thirsty and hungry. I’m just not up to being social anymore. And staying in the fire station would obviously require me to be social and be a good guest and I’d lose all of my independence. I bowed to the inevitable, though, and agreed. Once you throw yourself on the mercy and hospitality of the barangay captain, you can’t easily reject the hospitality he offers. I found, though, that in this case all the brandy I’d consumed came to my rescue. It usually takes a certain set of circumstances to loosen my tongue and get me laughing and enjoying a social situation. But with the brandy coursing through my system, I relaxed and found myself quite enjoying the company of the firefighters. They asked the usual questions and I had to endure the interrogation. But I treated it lightly and enjoyed chatting with the firefighters.

They were young for the most part and didn’t know very much about the outside world. They spoke enough English for us to talk, though. I learned that they worked 7-day shifts. They worked for seven days straight and then had seven days off. This only worked out to 14 days a month, but they were on call for 24 hours a day. They lived in the fire station – some of them in the room where I would be sleeping and some in a different room around back. It was all pretty rough and primitive. The bunks were just wooden bunks. I had to put my mattress and sleeping gear and inflatable pillow down to make my bed. There was a sink with a hot plate. And there was a ramshackle sort of bathroom. These guys lived a bachelor life and the place wasn’t very clean or homey. There were no books in evidence anywhere other than a copy of the fire code for the Philippines. No TV and no radio. No homey touches at all.

I offered to pay for dinner fixings, and one guy took my money and went out to buy some fish. This fish was wrapped up in tinfoil with spices and sauce and then thrown onto a bed of charcoal to cook. When it was done, we all sat around the single low table and ate the fish with rice. They gave me a fork, but everyone else just ate with their hands. I have no problem with the taste of fish and that sort of thing. I’ve just never been a big fan of fish because of all the bones and the trouble it takes to eat it. I end up with big mouthfuls of bones that I have to spit out. I often miss a bone and it gets lodged in my throat. It just seems like a lot of work for very little benefit. But I did my best and filled up on rice to make up for the bits of fish I managed to get clear of the bones. After the fish and rice, we had some beer. The fiancé of one of the firefighters joined us for dinner and she had a lot more imagination than the guys. We ended up chatting about a number of different things, including the possibility of life on other planets and astronauts going to Mars. This was a fortuitous turn of the conversation because I had just read the book “Packing for Mars.”

Eventually, I ran out of steam and after draping my mosquito net around my bunk, I went to bed. I won’t say I went to sleep, because I don’t know that I ever really slept. No matter how I arranged the mosquito net, it did little good and I was devoured by voracious mosquitoes all night long. Each bite set my body on fire and they practically drove me insane before the night was through. I wondered how the firefighters could possibly stand it. One firefighter slept in that room with me and he just lay on his bunk with no netting at all. How did he survive the mosquitoes? I have no idea. I don’t think I could ever get used to them.

 

 

Tags: barangay, barangay captain, bike, fire, Philippines Bike Trip 2013, tent, West Coast of Samar