Philippine Adventure Tour: a trip down Memory Lane

Tam was an unhappy man engrossed in his own mental turmoil exacerbated by half a dozen Red Horses and the business end of a bottle of Tequila. I learnt his life story as I sat with Sue and our guide Fabian under the clear night sky that sprinkled stars past midnight over the mountain village of Sagada in the north of the Philippines. Fabian was more representative of his nation's character: open, super-friendly, hospitable and with the ability to laugh at himself and all adversity no matter the circumstances. It turned out the morose Tam had recently fled a neighbouring town where he'd been frog-marched into a life of extortion, blackmail and vendettas. I wasn't quite clear on the whole story suffice to say he'd been asked to perform one punishment too many before, to his credit, he'd run off to the relative anonymity of cave-guiding in this sleepy part of the world. The more tequila drunk and the hotter the spliffends became only served to loosen his tongue to the extent that he had his arm around my shoulders declaring that these things he'd only ever told his mother and that none of the other guides new his history. What could I do but fill him full of West Coast psycho-self-improvement platitudes and say how great it was that he was turning over a new leaf no matter what misery he'd caused in his past. I just hoped he wouldn't run 'amok' (a Tagalog word incidentally) here and now and do away with the lot of us for it's common practice to carry at least a knife if not a gun around these parts.

A few days later finds us all in a seedy videoke bar in downtown Banaue thrashing out such classics as 'Imagine', 'I heard it through the Grapevine' and 'I shall Survive' with a bunch of young male Friday-nighters, when a drunken lunatic comes crashing through the sliding metal doors wielding the biggest rusty parang I've seen this side of a Freddy Krueger film. He's yelling abuse and waving the damn thing around and, you know what, nobody bats an eyelid. My bowels suddenly feel very loose as the old bar lady tries to cool him down. However everybody seems more interested in the Marvin Gaye impressionist murdering his motown classic. Knife-wielder is forced to sit down in the corner comforted by a mate and a San Miguel whilst bar lady comes up to us, the only foreigners in her establishment since Noah was a lad, and apologises for the disgraceful behaviour of her son! Sue asks if she's happy about the situation to which she replies in the affirmative. "Well if you're happy, we're happy" is our South African friend's retort as Julia orders another round of San Migs and I keep a beady eye on the simmering loony...I suppose he almost ran amok!

All this, I hasten to add, is not indicative of everyday Philippine travel. I've trekked around a fair few countries now and I'd been here six times before during the death-throws of the Marcos era back in the early eighties so I feel well qualified to say that they are the friendliest, smiliest people you could wish to meet. The kids run out to wave and laugh as you scooter along the rural backwaters of the central islands of Bohol and Cebu; farmers pose gleefully as you try secretly to film them trudging through their paddy fields behind their carabao towing ploughs...up to their knees in mud; kids frolic naked in the brown rivers and old men sit by the roadsides proudly stroking their fighting cocks...their prized possessions and a national past-time here.

We witnessed one of these fights having been drawn by the deafening noise and commotion on the outskirts of a small coastal village. In many countries suspicion and a little animosity might greet three white strangers walking uninvited into a crowded and dusty arena in the back end of nowhere. Not in the Philippines. Welcomed almost like foreign dignitaries as we climbed the rickety wooden stands for the best views of the fight we quietly observed the riotous behaviour and feverish betting that precedes all contests. Soon the sheaves were off the sharp blades strapped to the dew claws on the back of the cockerels' legs and after a couple of minutes of frantic feathers and jumping jabs one prized specimen lies twitching in the pit below us. Whisked quickly away the poor unfortunate is immediately plucked, cleaned and potted ready for that evening's stew. Enter the next two gladiators and the whole process starts again. We watched a couple of fights before returning to our beach-huts, beer and bloody sunsets.

Back in Luzon I met a man of 92 I'd first encountered nearly 20 years ago. I know this as I have a picture of him with myself and two nonagenarians overlooking the famous rice terraces they call the eighth man-made wonder of the world. They were all dressed in traditional Ifugao garb and it was one of those tourist things you could do all those years ago. Not expecting much I enquired as to whether any of the old men in my picture were still alive and was delighted to hear that the younger one was still living and posing for shots...only problem being he was sleeping off a thumping hangover in his hut in the next village. I left it there expecting nothing more until I'm called back half an hour later to be greeted by the ancient Tomas, penny whistle in one hand and a shy smile as wide as the morning sun. I explained my photo story through an interpreter and he greeted me like a long lost friend! Needless to say the other two tribesmen in my original photo had long since passed over to the great rice terraces in the sky. A touching moment and it'll be fun comparing both shots when we return to England: seeing how much we had both aged...me fatter and Tomas more bent over and wizened.

Many other things we did in these beautiful islands: abseiling down through bat-shit infested caves; diving with huge white tips and devil rays; enduring arse-numbingly bumpy bus rides along mountain ridges and walking 22 kms one day up and down through the hills of the north. I challenge anybody not to be enchanted by the people and scenery of these fantastic islands and it was with a heavy heart we bade goodbye to this country but as General Douglas MacArthur said after being forced by the Japanese in WW2 to retreat to Australia: "I shall return". It only took him 2 years to fulfill his promise and officially accept Japan's surrender...but however long it takes me I will go back one day!