A version of this story appeared in the Sunday Times Travel Weekly
As our helpless
boat drifted closer to the rocks, the Filipina woman got more panicky. The more panicky she got the more her
American husband ignored her. Bats the
size of cats circled the thick jungle trees on the cliff tops. My thoughts turned from how to get my
backpack and camera from the floundering boat onto the rocks without getting
them wet, to how we were going to get the frightened woman and her overweight
husband ashore without one of them drowning. It felt too early in the journey for an
adventure.
Meanwhile, the
boat-boys had their bottoms in the air and their heads down in the engine
housing. A pin that attached some or
other rod to the propeller shaft had sheared and they were trying various makeshift
solutions to hold things together until we reached the beach resort. Nothing seemed to be working. Every time they
started the engine the power would be too much for the little bit of wire
they’d used to secure the link.
At every failed
effort the woman whimpered, the boatmen cursed and we all wallowed on the
swell. The rocks got closer, much
closer.
With the rocks now
only about ten metres away I decided to find a dry place to put my money which
I kept under the insoles of my boots. Credit
cards were an alien concept to me then and even if I’d had one there are many
places in the remoter islands of the archipelago that don’t take them. I carried some of those as a safety net.
I tried to think
where the driest spot would be for my dollars if I had to swim for it. Then the engine chug-chugged and kept
chugging, the boatmen whooped and laughed, full of joy and big smiles. They’d fixed the problem. I laced up my boots again.
I had arrived in
Manila from Hong Kong the night before and checked into a hotel in the centre
of town. A pleasant change from the
budget accommodation I usually used in the scruffy districts of Malati and
Ermita. After dinner I wandered into the
nearest bar for a nightcap and some company.
The velvet curtain at the entrance should have been a giveaway. Inside, a young woman in a lycra outfit was slinking
half-heartedly up and down the dimly lit bar-top, occasionally curling herself
around the chrome poll before walking back the other way. She looked bored. A few middle aged westerners were dotted
around the bar, far enough away from each other not to have to engage in
conversation. I conformed and sat at a
respectful distance. After a couple of
beers and some attempts by the girls to get me to take them home, I left.
Alone.
I arrived at the
port the next day looking for the local ferry for Puerto Galera. Not the fast, expensive tourist boat, but the
local banca. These long, narrow boats with bamboo
outriggers and single cylinder engines are the mainstay of inter-island
transport. But to find the right one at
a busy port requires either some local knowledge or a knowledgeable local. I had neither.
I was quickly
surrounded by a small band of men in faded t-shirts and cut-off jeans. “You want boat to Puerto?” I said I did and was bustled along towards the
quayside. “You pay now”. Five of them were pulling and pushing and
plucking at my shirt. “You pay now!” They said pointing to a boat full of people.
The vagabonds on
the quayside had nothing to do with the little boat to Puerto. They weren’t touts, they were conmen. A passenger explained that I’d paid five
times the fare. I asked the boatmen how
much I owed them but they refused payment, embarrassed that a visitor to their
country had been swindled. It was a reminder of why I was back in those
beautiful islands with their warm and generous people.
