Afraid of late the letters have been predominantly bike-ish. Sorry if that bores those who prefer 4 wheels to 2 (you don't know what you're missing), simply that this is the riding season in the Land of Sun & Fun. It's our summer December to May before it gets too hot to ride and then the rains begin. So our highway experiences are seasonally- and bike-related. If we are in your view a waste of bandwidth and your time and not to your taste, please do pass on by.
Long, long way north on Luzon Island up the western coast this is. We left Manila at dawn, having been woken at 3 a.m. by the aftershocks of a 6.2 quake (according to CNN) somewhere offshore in the Manila Trench in the South China Sea, very common hereabouts in the Ring of Fire as it's known, and are still riding 10 hours later (11 bikes). My arthritic shouder is giving me gyp, (hope Herself on the back remembered the Ibuprofen), my thighs ache because I didn't change the seat for that other softer one I've got which isn't so wide, Miss Philippines on the back is complaining of wedgies, but the Harley runs as strong as ever. That bike feels like it would go round the world if you just let it.
Mostly on 2 lane concrete laid by the US Army Corps of Engineers pre-independence in 1946 after Gen. Douglas (I Shall Return) McArthur kicked the Japs out of the Philippines and as good now as then. But the wooden bridges over the rivers are a bit buttock-clenching I must admit. Protruding nails and bolts, oncoming trucks with regard for neither life nor limb....buses with chassis so bent they proceed crab-wise down the highway. I love the ones with no fixed seats, just loose plastic garden chairs seating about 60 people! That's so families can rearrange them and all sit together. If you can't get in then get on the roof or hang off the back. Tricycle sidecars with 8 people being pulled by a Chinese 125cc two-smoke, and all their luggage on top doing unannounced u-turns or appearing from side turnings at full speed oblivious to all else. Sharing a very old wooden bridge with a 40 foot San Miguel Brewery semi-trailer delivering beer to the provincial masses is a bit discommoding, too.
Miles of rice and s***es laid neatly out on rush matting to dry/ripen in the sun taking up one whole lane of the highway and holding up de trapik. Why not?
Sore butts in sweaty leathers all round after such a long haul. It's majorly hot as well. My forearms are verging on the mahogany despite the sunblock. Hourly stops to rehydrate are a must. Gatorade does the job best and you can get it anywhere. But no traffic to speak of once past the main centres and 100mph is do-able some of the time. The girls as ever are real troopers, it must be tough for them with their small frames, Asians hate being out in the sun, but they stick with it, bless 'em. Filipinas are the ultimate good sports, these ladies will have a go at anything. I don't know where I'd be without mine. She's good at everything I'm not. We watch them carefully to make sure they're OK. Rule 101 of the group is that our back-riders are The Boss at all times and at any sign of serious discomfort on their part we alter the ride plan accordingly.
Their job is to pack/unpack the bags, make sure we've got copies of our reg docs, ID's and import papers, wave at other bikers and schoolkids, any policeman who isn't actually asleep, signal directions to the rest of the group, wave followers on when the road is clear to signal it's safe to overtake, point out road hazards to those behind us, give a "halt" sign to any vehicle about to pull into our path, give the finger to any car trying to cut into our formation, warn the rider of any likely hazard he may have missed, manage the money, pay the expressway tolls, get the cold drinks when we stop to gas up, know how to vary their position on the back and weight distribution in different riding situations, peel off our boots at the end of the ride and provide massage and other services as required. Ours is to ride at all times within limits which are comfortable for them, not to the extent we might if we didn't have them with us, not to take risks, and to listen. And to pick up the tab when they see something they simply MUST have.....
Catherine made the very perceptive comment at one of our post-ride evaluation sessions that our partnership as a couple has been much strengthened by the biking experience. Trust, closeness, shared enjoyment (and the occasional panic!), mutual dependence, managing the vulnerability, the sense of risk, working as a team, were terms she used. She's right. She usually is. Don't tell her I said that. Not to mention visiting some fantastic places. Compared with being half asleep in an insulated tin tub, a good ride is the best way of energizing mind and body that I have found. I can only say I recommend the experience to any couple. If we go more than a couple of days without a bike under us it's no exaggeration to say we both get a bit twitchy. I like SjB's post in a much similar vein.
Blindingly green countryside, endless paddy fields with the sun reflecting off them as with a mirror, coconut palms, sugar cane fields and shadowy mountains on the horizon. As ever, magnificent scenery. Slow lumbering carabaos pulling carts laden with sugar cane or mangoes or coconuts or wood or people or pigs or scrap iron or something.. Rows of stalls selling tropical fruit perfectly arranged, or (illegally) rare protected birds, or....anything.. We stop to haggle and buy my favourite fruits from cackling toothless old women who are ruthless bargainers: rambutan and lanzones. Miss Philippines wants to buy durian: I say NO way. Schoolkids in their neat little white uniforms wave as we thunder through villages. Country dogs with more bravado than brains chase us, barking furiously. But watch them, they're fearless little mothers. Run over one and the experience can throw you off. Police checkpoints for insurgents, stolen vehicles and Abu Sayyaf guerillas: somnolent cops doze over their cigarettes and wave us by with barely a look. Just some mad foreigners with their local girlfriends.
One cop flags us down. We all have our reg papers and ID's but hope this isn't an extortion scam. He's toting an M-16. Turns out he wants to invite us to the local cockfight, which we can hear from the raucous sounds off-stage is well under way. Politely decline. When the local men get on the Red Horse Beer (8.3% alcohol) which they also lace with local 40 proof rum, good natured arguments often turn into gunfights. Anyway we chat for a few minutes to save his face, take his photo with us, promise to mail it, then shake hands and off again.
Lunch at Flanagan's, an Irish pub on the beach. Lord knows what the locals make of it. Even got Murphy's in cans.
There's really only one road but it pays to check. Signposts are not common in the Philippines. The theory goes that well everyone around here knows the road so why waste the money, or maybe there were signs once but the locals pulled them down and sold them for scrap ......We gas up in some small town and I ask the pump attendant what's the name of this place. She draws herself up to her full 4 foot 11 in her cute crisply pressed red and yellow shirt, shorts and trainers and proudly announces Sir this is the Shell Station Sir. OK OK ask a silly question.......that's happened to me before, I should know by now.
Slightly cooler as we turn inland and start climbing into the mountains. The heat melts the many patchwork tarmac repairs, makes them soft and it's easy to slide on a bend. Keep off that front brake and use the gears.The road surface is uneven and just dirt in places. Slow right down to 30-40kph. We have our girls back-riding with us and not on their own bikes this time so take extra care. Not to mention the 60 year old ex US military Dodge 6WD's carrying tonnes of sugar cane and 30 people riding on top who arrive unexpectedly on your side of the road round a bend. They'll probably still be running in another 60 years.
Eventually we reach Bengued, a small town in the mountains on the northern tip of Luzon. Mad Frenchman owns a chicken farm in the middle of nowhere. He and the local Governor are to be our hosts. I have never seen so many chickens nor do I want to ever again nor will I talk about the bouquet of same which assails the refined nostrils of a city boy like me. Growlette is a provinciana by birth who grew up with all this stuff and makes fun of me. Our man does have however as befits a national of La République a respectable cellar, and knows what a decent cup of coffee is, unlike Starbucks.
The Governor appears on an ancient Kawasaki accompanied by his bodyguards in a jeep. (see pic shortly to be posted on BR photosite). Hands are shaken, introductions made, and this important man takes his seat, snapping his fingers for a bottle of rum, a glass of ice and some Coke, which are served with suitable fawning and due deference by his acolytes. He proceeds to lecture us all on how much better a very dilapidated and smoky 1973 Kawasaki is than a 2003 fuel-injected Harley Davidson. We derive from this after a few minutes that he knows diddly-squat about motorcycles and is merely asserting his authority.
A vast meal in our honour, cooked and eaten on the mountain side with stray dogs prowling around hoping for cast-offs. Locals gather to have a good gawp at the White Man and perhaps be given doggy-bags later. Chicken paté, chicken gizzards, nameless unidentifiable innards, wings, legs, liver, breast, parsons' noses, whatever. Anything you want so long as it's chicken. And grilled chicken feet, that delicacy known among Filipinos as "Adidas". Me, I chicken out. Growlette by contrast pigs out.
We check in at a beautiful hotel on a mountainside with no one else in it and no hot water, with power only from 6 pm to 6 am, reached by a very risky gravel downhill unlit hairpin road with a nasty looking drop to the left (think 700lb Harley, 12 midnight, ridden 450 km that day, half a bottle of local rum under the belt, girl on the back seat, need for spare underpants, drop the plot and then what if etc.) The place is run by Julian and this is his friend Sandy (for those who remember Round The Horne). The view across the valley is magnificent and on the terrace we contemplate the full moon and the stars over a cleansing ale. Argue about which is Orion's Belt. Growlette says what a great place for a honeymoon. I respond that'll be quite enough of that, young lady. Everyone is knackered, totally. I just take it upon myself to check all the bikes over and give the security guard a decent tip before retiring. Growlette goes to sleep all over me. I literally have to pick all 48 kg of her up, throw her over my shoulder and carry her to the room, she's dead to the wide and snoring.
Next day. Oil checks. Bertrand's Heritage is down half a quart and so is Jean-Pierre's Fat Boy. Clever Growlette remembered to pack a quart of Harley HD360 20w/50. It deflates the Gallic hauteur un petit peu when she makes them pay for it - with a mark-up at that- ......me I pretend not to notice and fire up the bike instead. On y va.....
Filipino hospitality is legendary, along with the national predilection for making a fiesta of just about any occasion and we find out that the Governor has arranged for a motorcade for us through the town accompanied by the local police bikers, followed by a formal reception with a whole roasted pig where lots of little girls hang garlands of perfumed sampaguita (jasmine) round our necks, sing songs and perform cute dance routines. A pleasure to ride without helmets for once without getting nicked, as well. The local Catholic priest shows up looking for donations and intones obscure mumbled benedictions accompanied by equally obscure hand gestures. Growlette deals with all that stuff -- give me 20 Pesos. What for? Never mind, just give me 20 Pesos.
The Governor presides autocratically over all this from his rumbling smoking Kawasaki, his 9mm tucked in his belt, a bottle of beer in hand.
The girls alight and we backride the local kids round the market square. They love it. They all line up in order to take their turn and thank us afterwards. The tradition is for the kids to greet an elder by taking that person's hand, pressing it to their forehead and bowing. Hard not to be touched by this simple custom (pun). Then each kid gets a styro with a piece of chicken and some rice in it, along with a Coke plus a balloon, Grace is said and they all sit down and eat quietly and in orderly fashion. As ever I am struck by the contrast between disciplined neatly dressed polite respectful Asian kids and sloppy disorderly scruffy Western ones.
Then we all repair to the tiny local airport, where the ATO has closed down the place so we can all drag race down the runway (ouch those potholes...) for the entertainment of the locals.
But there's always a twist in the tale in this chaotic, frustrating and lovely country which is my adopted home. It's like peeling an onion, every layer taken off reveals another..
4 days ago I read in the Manila Times that our Governor pal has been charged with robbery, extortion and murder. He'll weasel out of that for sure with his connections. But then as the locals say, what's the point of getting elected to something if you don't use the opportunity to enrich yourself? The sin is not so much in the commission as in the omission....Rather more of an honest expression of the truth than you're likely to hear from New Labour I suspect!
Ah well, the weather is warm, the beer is cold, and the women are beautiful. More about cars next time....promise.
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