Saturday September 20, 2014
6:20 a.m. San Juan, Siquijor

Last morning coffee on Siquijor, sadly. I’ve started to feel quite at home on this beautiful and relaxed island. But flights to Malayasia and trips to Cebu Immigration beckon.

It’s not very clear what is going to happen today. I learned at the last minute yesterday that the GL Express Shipping Line is owned by Seventh Day Adventists, and they operate none of their boats on Saturdays. So that leaves only the Aleson RORO boat and OceanJet. I understood that the Aleson boat leaves at 11 every day, but, not surprisingly, I can get no one to confirm that. People argue that on Saturdays it leaves at 10 o’clock. Others stick to the 11 o’clock time. The Negative Nelly side of me is so baffled by this. These few boats are the lifeline of Siquijor. People have lived their entire lives going back and forth on these boats and getting all their supplies on these boats. Yet, people know nothing about them and the customer service remains abysmal. Just as puzzling to me is that the hotels and resorts – such as Casa Miranda – can supply no information. I can guarantee you that if I were hired at the Casa Miranda, there would be a boat schedule up on the wall on the very first day. Every single guest that stays here will ask the exact same questions – When do the boats leave? How much do they cost? How long do they take? Can I take a boat directly to Cebu? Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, even decade after decade, the same parade of guests asking the same questions. How do you NOT assemble this information and make it available? It baffles me. I can understand if no one then ever updates the information (this is the Philippines, after all), but surely one employee would make the attempt at some point.

Anyway, I may or may not get to Dumaguete by boat today. Another wrinkle is that a typhoon of some sort is threatening. I learned about this late yesterday. Again, no one had any definite information about it, but there was talk of the boats being cancelled today. Hopefully not, as that would make my life very complicated indeed and could easily result in my missing the flight. Assuming I do catch the boat, I don’t know if I will spend the night in Dumaguette or just keep riding and try to cross over to Cebu. I’m thinking right now that making the effort to reach Cebu would be the wiser choice. The earlier I get to Cebu, the better. But it would also be better to cross that bit of water as soon as possible. The boats might be running today, but they might not be running tomorrow.

I’m trying to look on the bright side, but I have to say that I’m not entirely thrilled at the prospects of the next few days – nothing but boats, trips to immigration, packing, trips to airports, and flights. And everything will be out of my control at every stage. It will be interesting to see Kuala Lumpur, of course, but more than a little bit of stress will be involved in my arrival. My flight arrives at night, and at the moment, I have not confirmed any kind of Warm Showers host there. In fact, I have zero information on Kuala Lumpur and Malaysia in general.

Looking back, it might have been wise to leave Siquijor yesterday, but I knew nothing about the typhoon at the time. As it was, I set off for one last exploration of the island. Being a Friday, the island had a slightly different atmosphere. Weekend-trippers were arriving on the boats, and I saw new faces around. In particular, I saw two large groups of cyclists. There were about twenty cyclists in each group. They were Filipinos from Bacolod on Negros and were part of cycling clubs with matching Lycra uniforms, helmets, clip-in pedals and shoes, and all the other high-tech gear. It was amusing to be passed by them as I slowly made my way up the 4-kilometer climb between here and Lazi. I always get a lot of attention as I cycle, but this time I got much more attention and ten times more laughter and jokes. People had seen the big group of cyclists in all their technical glory powering their way up the hill, and then they saw me, far behind, rather disheveled, in standard gym shorts and a dirty tank top. The joke was that I was the turtle of the group – not able to keep up with the other cyclists – the poor cousin – unable to buy even a normal cycling jersey. Whatever the jokes were, there were many more of them, and I produced laughter everywhere I went.

I caught up with one of the groups at the Century-Old Balete Tree with the fish sauna. Only one or two of the cyclists dared put their feet in the water and then only for a second or two. I was the center of attention as I bravely put my feet in and had hundreds of fish nibbling on me. Members of the cycling group asked if they could take pictures of my feet with all the fish around them. Other members took pictures on the sly. I had become part of their Siquijor experience, and it had to be captured in pictures. In fact, taking group pictures was a very large part of their cycling experience. Based on the number of times they posed for group pictures at the Balete tree, I wondered how they would have enough time to make it around the island. It’s funny that I got so much sympathy from this group (and from everyone on Siquijor) for being alone and unmarried. Yet, I could think of nothing more horrifying than being a member of this cycling group. Much later in the day, in fact, I was back at my favorite little eatery in the Siquijor market, and the oldest woman there decided to subject me to “the interrogation”. She then started off on the long list of “should”s that everyone offers me: I should marry a Filipina. I should have children. I should buy a motorcycle. I should have companions. This is all meant well. They are trying to help me. But, occasionally, I’ve had enough, and I speak a bit of truth in my answers. I pulled few punches with this woman, and I told her that I despised children. I can’t stand being even near them let alone stomach the thought of creating my own. I didn’t want companions because 95% of people are really boring and have nothing to say. I couldn’t marry a Filipina because the cultural gap is far too great. We would have nothing in common. I don’t want children to take care of me as I become really sick in my 70’s and 80’s. I’d rather just die. This poor woman. She was horrified at everything that came out of my mouth. I pictured her rushing to the church and lighting candles and crossing herself for protection from the devil that must be inhabiting the body of that terrible foreigner with his strange ideas.

I did not have high hopes for the destination of the day. This destination was a “famous” waterfall four or five kilometers from the town of Lazi. Everyone told me that I should go to see these waterfalls. Every town in the Philippines has famous waterfalls nearby, so I’m not that excited about seeing more of them, but a destination is a destination, and I quite enjoyed my ride there. The road to get there was pleasant and climbed into the hilly interior of the island. Given more time, I’d have liked to ride right across the island on that road.

There was a little parking area on the road near the stone steps down to the waterfalls. It cost a small fee to park there for all vehicles, but bicycles were not listed. I was beset by people trying to sell me Gatorade and other things when I first arrived, so I just kept cycling. A woman called out plaintively, “Where are you going???? The waterfalls!” It was a shock and a disappointment to her that I would ride right past them and just keeping going up the road. After a while, I did turn around and I locked up my bicycle to a heavy metal bench. A young man came over to talk to me while I did so, and he also subjected me to the interrogation. “Are you married?” was one of his first questions. I said that I wasn’t, and he asked “Why not?” Instead of answering, I turned the tables. I asked him if he was married. He said that he was. And I asked him why he was married. I like to think that his eyes widened a bit at the question, but I was probably imagining it. To me, it’s a fair question. The assumption is that it is natural and normal to be married. That may be so, but what is so great about it? “Why ARE you married?” seems as valid a question as “Why AREN’T you married?” He had no answer, of course. Now that I think about it, it was quite a day for that question. Back at Casa Miranda, I noticed an older foreign man and a Filipina sitting at a table near the water. They commented on the sunburn on my shoulders, and I said something in return. Then the woman shouted, “Are you looking for a wife?” I gave a natural loud laugh at that. I commented that it was quite a big jump to go from a sunburn to marriage. She said that she had heard that I was here to find a wife. I have no idea how she could have heard that because I have been very clear with everyone about my lack of interest in local matrimony.

To my great surprise, I learned that the British man was the part owner of the Casa Miranda. He was a professor from Cambridge and had married a Filipina and now ran this business with her. I had not seen him, apparently, because he had spent the last two weeks in his room watching TV. This man was the very picture of the confused if not completely loony professor – the type of man that would be contemplating the origins of the universe while forgetting to put on his pants. I could barely keep up with the flow of his conversation as it jumped from esoteric topic to even more esoteric topic. He noticed a pattern of green growth on the sand in the tidal flats, and this reminded him of the sand waves in the Sahara and how he was curious about the physics of their formation. He also noted that his jeep, at certain speeds, just floated over the sand ridges and rode smoothly. At other speeds, it was very bumpy. He talked about the mathematics of that and how it appeared to be a relationship between the square of the mass times the velocity, etc. That I was standing there made no difference to him. He would talk like this to anyone, it seemed. And it struck me profoundly how completely out of place he was. I can guarantee you that his Filipina wife was not struck by the patterns in the sand of the Sahara and how the velocity and mass of the vehicle affected the smoothness of the ride. How intensely lonely must he be with a mind like that sitting on the island of Siquijor? I think about odd things and notice patterns all the time. It’s normal. And my conversation is similar. But it’s not like I can have that conversation with a random group of Filipino rice farmers. I’d actually enjoy talking with the Cambridge professor except for the fact that he clearly was not having a conversation. He was lecturing, and he could go on for hours, and he would never hear a thing I said in return. So that can be quite boring.

I have to say that it is has been a bit disheartening of late to meet so few kindred spirits. In fact, there has been something of a total lack of them. Almost everyone I meet has been so different from me as to constitute a member of a different species. A recent arrival at the Casa Miranda is a middle-aged man from Hong Kong. He is certainly unusual for a Chinese man in that he is traveling alone in a backpacker style. He’s a nice enough guy, but also of such a different character that I could not spend much time with him without feeling quite bored. We would have nothing in common and nothing to talk about.

To back up for a minute, the waterfalls themselves were nothing special. If I had stumbled across them while hiking through the mountains, I’m sure they would have seemed wonderful. But as a sight that has been hyped by everyone for days and days and days, they were a little underwhelming. Under other circumstances, I would have enjoyed a refreshing swim in the pools at the base of the various falls, but the surrounding jungle was too dense. With my robbery experience at Kusuanga fresh in my mind, I was not willing to leave my pannier bag unattended for even a minute or two while swimming. I just walked around the falls and took a few pictures and then left.

I rode back to San Juan along the rough coastal roads, and that was pleasant. A number of groups of young men lounging in the shade called out to me to join them for some tuba (coconut wine). I declined all their offers, of course. I was hearing enough about my lack of a Filipina wife for one day. I didn’t need to voluntarily subject myself to more of the same.

I stopped off at one of my favorite spots for a cold beer while enjoying the view out over the ocean at the setting sun. Then a dinner of spaghetti back at Casa Miranda. The man from Hong Kong was there, and he proudly told me that he had purchased some things in the market and he was going to cook it in the kitchen of Casa Miranda. I’ve noticed in the past how travel can make people very unsure of themselves. Perhaps it has something to do with being away from their home culture. In any event, it brings out a certain competitiveness. This man wanted to buy fish in the market and cook it himself. That’s great. No problem. But in telling me about it, he was clearly trying to convince himself and me about how this was BETTER than the alternatives and certainly much better than whatever I was doing for dinner. He told me about how fresh everything was and how it was much cheaper than eating in restaurants. In fact, he was saying, I should do it, too. He was a better traveler than I was because he had done this amazing thing. He was defensive about it in a way and was trying to win some sort of travel competition with me. It’s just something that happens.

Well, the weather is quite nice. I wish I could stay on Siquijor longer, but I must go. A boat awaits. First, some packing.

11:20 a.m.

A new setting for me, and perhaps a unique one. I’m on the big vehicle ferry from Siquijor back to Dumaguete, and since no one seemed to be watching or monitoring, I slipped down the stairs and I’m sitting on a plastic chair on the vehicle deck beside my bicycle. It’s a wonderful place with huge windows beside me giving a spectacular view of the volcanoes and mountains on the island of Negros as the beaches of Siquijor slip away into the distance. No one has come by to yell at me yet, so I hope that I can stay here for the rest of the journey. It’s more comfortable here than up on the passenger deck, I have my own plastic chair, plus I can keep an eye on my bike and bags. As Negative Nelly, I complain about things in the Philippines, but the laxness also leads to the ability to do things like this – something that no ferry company in Canada would allow a passenger to do.

The safest thing, perhaps, would be to remove all the bags from the bike and bring them up into the passenger area with me. But I don’t believe it’s necessarily safer. The bags would be in full view of all the passengers, and I would be unable to leave them. And that would still leave my bicycle vulnerable. What I do instead is padlock all the main zippers and then cover the pannier bags with the yellow rain covers. Of course, I remove my survival kit with my passport, etc. But I leave the other three bags plus the tent and sleeping bag on the bike. I lock it up with my cable lock, of course, and rope the entire bike to the wall of the ship so it doesn’t fall over. It’s not totally safe here, as the various ship crew have free access for the entire journey. I think men from the trucks also stay down on the vehicle deck. But it feels relatively safe – safer even than being up on the crowded passenger deck. There are sure to be pickpockets up there working the ship on a regular basis.

As always, I anticipated a lot of trouble getting on this ship, but things worked out relatively well. The typhoon system either never materialized or is far north of here, so the weather is beautiful and the oceans are calm. I packed up without much trouble, and I had paid my bill at the hotel the night before. I could have hoped for a more personal and emotional send-off, but the Casa Miranda is not big on the personal touch. It’s a family operation, and that generally means that as a guest, you have no idea who works there and who you should relate to. Anyway, despite being there for 12 nights, no one cared one way or the other whether I stayed or left or what my plans were.

The ship was scheduled to leave at 11 a.m., but I left early from the guest house. One never knows what is going to happen. I wanted to be early in case the ship was fully booked or it decided to leave early or who knows what. Besides that, I had to ride ten or eleven kilometers to the port town of Siquijor. I got there without any trouble, and the ticket clerk was sitting inside her anonymous Aleson Shipping shack. I took a picture of that shack just to show how completely anonymous it was. A poor tourist like myself could wander around for days and not recognize it as the ticket office for Aleson Shipping.

To a large extent, I have a bad attitude when it comes to travel arrangements. I assume things will go wrong, and then I over react when they DO go wrong. In this case, despite making the effort to get there early to get a jump on buying a ticket, I was told that the man who sold tickets for bicycles was not there, and I would have to come back. Just one of those strange things. The ticket clerk was there, and if I were a foot passenger, I could buy a ticket from her. However, paying for my bicycle required another person entirely. I was told to go away and come back later. I had hoped to buy my ticket and get the bike ready and then have a nice and relaxed meal or cup of coffee near the dock. But now I was all stressed out as I had my breakfast, worried about whether or not I would be able to buy a ticket for my bicycle. I could see the ticket shack from my little café, and I got more and more worried as more and more people showed up to buy tickets. I worried that all the seats would be gone by the time the bicycle-ticket seller showed up. Things worked out in the end. The guy showed up and I paid my 200 pesos for the bicycle. They kept telling me that it cost 200 pesos for the bicycle and the “bicycle driver” was free. Technically that may be true, but in reality, it was 100 pesos per passenger and then 100 pesos for the bicycle. I asked about the price of a motorcycle, and they said it was nearly 700 pesos. That’s expensive for a 1.5 hour trip.

One other glitch in the system was that the bicycle-ticket seller had covered up his window with wood and cardboard to such an extent that there was only the tiniest crack through which we could communicate. The guy was chatty and kept asking questions and saying things, and I could never hear him or understand him because of that small gap and because I couldn’t see him at all. It’s just me, I suppose, but I would go crazy working through that tiny gap. How can you do your work and talk with your customers with any ease or comfort?

Not surprisingly, when I got to the dock itself, people kept asking for my ticket. I would show them the bill of lading for the bicycle and then they would ask for my ticket. I told them that this was my ticket, and I showed them where the bill of lading said “one passenger free”. It looks like a lot of people come to Siquijor for bike trips, so they would encounter this situation a lot. Why wouldn’t any of the Aleson Shipping employees realize that my passage came free with the bicycle?

The security guard at the main gate was friendly, and he let me roll my bicycle past him and park it in the area near the ship even though it wasn’t time for boarding. Once free of the bike, I was able to wander around the docks and enjoy the setting and snap some pictures. Boarding the ship was pretty straightforward. Other ferries I’ve been on involved a pretty big production as large numbers of buses and transport trucks were loaded. There was barely enough room for my bike to be squeezed on between then. This ship is lightly loaded with four medium-sized trucks and no cars.

There was some chaos and confusion as I rolled my bicycle on board. I asked in advance what I was expected to do with my bicycle, and everyone said that once I got on the ship, they would tell me. But, of course, once I was on the ship, I was totally ignored. I had to force awareness of my presence on several people in a row before someone finally stepped up and indicated where I should put my bicycle. It wasn’t the best spot, but it wasn’t the worst either, and after some effort, I found some places where I could tie the rope off and secure my my bicycle safely. An employee did come by when he saw what I was doing, and he tried to shoo me away and said that he would do it. By “it” he meant tie up my bicycle. But I insisted on doing it myself. I could only imagine the horror if he did it. I have my own rope for such occasions, and I know how to tie it up so that it doesn’t fall over and nothing gets damaged. Later on, I watched as a passenger on a fancy motorcycle came on board. He was told to just park the motorcycle in a certain spot, and they would take care of it. I watched as the loading dude took a heavy-duty rope and tied it to something on the motorcycle and then threw the rope over the bike’s big, wide, leather seat. He then tied off the rope and pulled it tight – so tight that it cut into and bunched up the leather seat. I don’t think it tore the leather (or vinyl), but over a long journey, it could easily do so. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the owner of the motorcycle would have found a way to tie up his precious bike without scrunching up the seat with a tight rope. In my case, when I tied up my bicycle, I made sure to attach the rope so that I wasn’t twisting the cables or bending delicate parts. It only makes sense. I know my bike and how to tie it safely. No one on the ship would take the same care. A funny angle to this experience is that while I was busy tying up the bike, I felt something weird pressing into my back. I turned and saw that a man behind me was tying up a big bundle of colorful helium balloons. Why these balloons needed to be transported by ship from Siquijor back to Dumaguete, I can’t imagine. My guess is that he sells them along the famous shoreline boulevard of Dumaguete and then returns to Siquijor each night.

I went up into the passenger area of the ferry first and walked around and took some pictures. Then I returned to the stairs overlooking the vehicle deck. From there, I could see my bicycle, and then I came down here to sit beside my bicycle and guard it. So far, so good.

One of the Spanish guys I met on Siquijor is on this same ferry. He is on his way back to Spain after two months on Siquijor and a few other months of traveling through Russia and Mongolia. His trip was spurred by losing his job as a cameraman in Spain during the economic crisis. He has a temporary job waiting for him, and he’s returning to Spain to take it. He’d prefer to stay on Siquijor, but he needs the money. He’s a nice guy and I enjoy talking to him, though it is a bit of tough sledding when it comes to his English. Like Carlos, he was studying English on Siquijor.

And there we are. Up to date. If I had another couple of days to play with, I’d go to Apo Island. I had plans to go there, but I didn’t really focus on those plans. In retrospect, I should have spent half my time on Siquijor and the other half on Apo. But at the time, I didn’t know much about Apo. I didn’t even know if it was possible to stay on the island. Yesterday, though, I met a young couple here on a diving holiday, and they raved about the snorkeling on Apo. They also said there was a relatively cheap resort there. Had I met them earlier, I probably would have gone to Apo. Too late now. If I didn’t have to visit immigration in Cebu, I could probably still squeeze in a trip to Apo. But I can’t.

It was interesting to chat with these divers. It made me reflect on humans and how we adopt our various passions. I enjoy snorkeling, but it isn’t something I have to do every single day. A good snorkeling trip on nice coral is a great experience, but each trip is somewhat like the last one. Once a year would be more than enough for me. Yet, most divers I meet are so passionate about it that they will dive all the time. Over and over and over again. I guess part of it is that you are becoming part of a diving society. Divers become your peer group, and by being part of that group, you want to dive all the time. It’s another one of these competitive angles. I remember when I worked at Sunshine Village how I was quite rare in that I didn’t go snowboarding on my days off. I went snowboarding every single day while at work. I hardly needed to go snowboarding all day when I had a day off. Yet, everyone else did. I enjoyed snowboarding back then, but, to be honest, I probably don’t need to ever go snowboarding again. I would if I had the chance, but it’s not something I’m aching to do. I don’t have to go snowboarding ever single year or go scuba diving every year or do anything every year. I guess I approach things more in the sense of a bucket list – do them once to see what they’re like and then move on. I’d like to go windsurfing at some point, and I’m always thinking about hang gliding, but even if I managed to do those, I doubt I’d end up adopting them as hobbies that I indulge in every single year. Maybe I would change if I were rich and it was easy to do these things. But considering it would take effort and a lot of expense, I tend not to.

Tags: Aleson Shipping, bike, Casa Miranda, Philippines Bike Trip 2013, Siquijor