Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means (26 page)

On foot now, Chan led me the rest of the way up the valley. I could feel the atmosphere beginning to thicken; so humid that my breath seemed to catch in my throat. Together we walked to where a wall of bulging, black rock rose above my head. I had never seen anything like it - this was as far as the lava had travelled, where it had solidified. I was face to face with a three-year-old eruption and I could feel heat still in the rock.

Climbing up it was like being in a dream. This was a lunar landscape and all I could see was a field of black boulders. Three years previously they had been red hot, molten and moving. It was truly awe-inspiring. Looking back the way we had come, I could see the town lying quietly against the backdrop of the bay and I tried to imagine being there when the volcano had erupted.

Studying the lava more closely now I could see where the earth had been pushed up, brown patches that looked moist in the sea of black. I picked up a piece of rock and was surprised to find how light it was. Further on wisps of smoke drifted from between the stones; they were damp underfoot and there was a strong smell of sulphur. It was like being in some gigantic open-air sauna.

Chan had set up a wire zip line which ran from the lava field all the way back to his camp. Only two people had tested it so far, so I volunteered to be the third. It was easier and much quicker than climbing down again and walking. As I whizzed down I had visions of the line breaking and me plummeting into the rocks. But it was secure enough and I made it unscathed to the braking point back at the camp.

We took a moment to refresh ourselves with some coconut juice. Chan gave me a machete and I was about as useful with that as I had been with the meat cleaver back in Cebu. But I got the coconut open somehow and drank the sweet juice gratefully. After that we were back on the ATVs and Chan led me around the foot of the mountain, pausing first at a church that had been swamped by mud from a typhoon and then at the Cagsawa ruins. This was a town that had been built by the Spanish and all that remained was the tower of a once-beautiful church. In 1814 the volcano erupted and in a bid to escape the lava the townspeople of Cagsawa fled to the church. But there was no escape and the church was engulfed; everything burned and every one of them died.

My trip to the lava fields had been incredible - seeing the volcano up close was a truly spectacular experience. But this was a reminder - as if I needed one - of its terrible capacity for destruction. I took heart from the knowledge that these days there were people like Ed, dedicated to monitoring the volcano day in, day out, and 01, ready to serve in any calamity. While Sobejana and his soldiers were fighting one kind of war out in the jungle, Ed and 01 faced their own battle against a very different force - nature herself.

WE HAD TRAVELLED a long way and the days were passing surprisingly fast. I remembered how nervous I’d felt that first morning back in May before I saw all those motorbikes waiting for us, and now here I was in the Philippines what felt like a lifetime later. I was looking forward to Taiwan and Japan but the days were slipping by . . . I thought about how much we had accomplished already - travelling up the east coast of Australia before crossing the Torres Strait to Papua New Guinea, witnessing VSO’s work with the disabled, and helping UNICEF with the water-purification system. I remembered that river crossing when things had almost got out of hand and I thought about the poor little girl who had been beheaded in Bogia. I’d ridden through a lava field and heard frightening stories about bombs and kidnappings. Until this morning we’d had the army with us, but they left last night, saying that the road was pretty safe from here to Manila.

What an experience. It’s only when you stop for breath that you really appreciate it. Over the last few years I’ve been privileged enough to see a hell of a lot of the world and my overriding impression is always of the people. No matter who is fighting whom, or what any particular political group or faction is trying to do, the vast majority of people just want to get on with their lives. They want a home and a job; they want normal, everyday things like friends and family around them. Of course there are differences in terms of lifestyle, but people are people wherever you go. And the bikers I’d met on this trip were like bikers anywhere: fun-loving with a shared appreciation of the freedom you feel on two wheels. Yesterday, for example, after we left the volcano, we rode with some guys from the X3M scooter club in Naga City. We dossed about a bit holding drag races, most of which I lost, and this morning we parted company at the market town of Calauag. I loved the fact that so much of this trip had been on motorbikes.

But that was yesterday. This morning my thoughts were on cock-fighting, of all things. We had had our first glimpse of the birds when we were on Camiguin, and since then I’d caught glimpses of the fights on TV. I’m no gambler and I’m not into any form of blood sport, but this was very much part of the culture here and a part of me wanted to witness it before we left. We were passing through Lopez today, where I knew they were holding some fights. To get there we needed to take a train . . . only there weren’t any trains, only train tracks.

Our translator Justine was from this part of Quezon Province and she introduced us to her husband Webster, who explained that nobody used the train any more. Over the last few years the trains, now rusty, lumbering hulks, had become pretty much obsolete. The government was in the process of rebuilding the railways, but in the meantime the people had taken them over.

They used the tracks as a road, moving up and down on what Webster called skates. These were basically platforms with some bench seats and a canopy - most were about eight feet long and could be lifted on and off the rails. They were used as taxis and delivery trucks and carried passengers or livestock. In some areas there were still trains running, so if you were on a skate when a train was coming you had to keep one ear open. Thankfully, there were no trains running here (or we’d be on one!). There was only one line of tracks, however, so when two skates were coming from opposite directions, the lighter one had to give way. Whatever was being carried was unloaded and the driver would hoist the thing on his shoulders and move it off the line. When the heavier skate had passed he would put it back again.

I had seen something similar in Cambodia, although then there had only been one. Here there were hundreds of them and entire shanty towns had grown up along the track. We hopped onto a skate powered by a five-horsepower engine that the owner started with a fan belt. Not all of them had motors, though - some had bicycle-type assemblies and others still were pushed along by hand. It was ingenious, typical of the industriousness of the Filipino people.

We left Calauag and headed into the countryside, where in some places palms overhung the rails and in others the tracks rode the ridge of high banks and we could see paddy fields stretching to the horizon. It was certainly a unique way of getting to a cock fight, although it was very slow and we had to keep stopping to lift the skate off the track so others could pass.

For all the fun, I have to admit I wasn’t in a very good mood. I don’t know what was causing it - possibly the thought of the cock fights - but this was the first time my mood had threatened to get the better of me on this trip. So far none of us had fallen out, and as yet I hadn’t let my mood affect the group. It didn’t help when I got tipped off the skate. We had just crossed a muddy river and I was hanging my legs out the back - thinking that perhaps that wasn’t a good idea - when the skate jerked to a halt and I was sent flying. We had hit an old set of points, the wheel jammed and off I went. The driver seemed unconcerned - it must happen a lot - and just lifted the skate off the rails and set about fixing the wheel.

We were close to one of the shanty towns and Webster told me how more and more people were making their living along the railway. Their days were numbered, however. These old routes would be used for the new tracks, the cuttings widened and all the shacks that hugged the line would have to be demolished. Most of them were tiny places made of tin and wood and bits of plastic sheeting, although a few were more substantial - wattle and daub maybe - some even had wooden balconies.

‘Do the people know?’ I asked him. ‘What the government is planning?’

He nodded.

‘Where will they go?’

Webster just looked at me with a grim expression. ‘They’ll find somewhere,’ he said.

When the wheel was fixed we made our way to Lopez. From there it was a short trip in a jeepney to a large concrete barn with turnstiles where a man was taking money. Inside, the place was echoing with screeches and shouts; men yelling at each other and above them the sound of cocks crowing.

This was the Lopez sports centre, run by a man called Buboy Lee. He was in his forties with thinning black hair and a moustache. I told him we’d seen the cock-fighting on TV and thought we’d have a look. He was more than happy to show us around, so we followed him and mingled with punters and cock-owners, who were wandering around with birds under their arms. The centre held fights three times a week and Buboy owned hundreds of the fighting birds himself. He took us to where a man was weighing them so they could be matched with an opponent of equal size. Once a fight had been agreed, the owners took the cocks up to the arena. It was an amphitheatre, a gladiatorial stage. The killing ground was a glass-sided cage with a dirt floor, surrounded by stone steps where a few dozen men were shouting odds at the bookmakers.

On Camiguin they had told us about the knives that were attached to the birds’ legs, and now I could see them for myself. Each one was brutal - a sharp, curving blade maybe three inches long. It was set between two prongs that were fastened to the bird’s leg, so when it was on its feet, one leg looked like the spiked wheel of a chariot.

With the knife in place the owners paced around each other, letting the birds have a quick peck before they were released - and I was shocked to see how they really went for it, leaping and kicking out violently. It was very nasty, very bloody. The first two birds were so well matched they cut each other to ribbons. After a few minutes both were exhausted, so badly injured they could hardly stand. The referee would pick them up and set them on their feet and it was a case of last bird standing. Before we knew it another pair had been matched. A large white cock disposed of his opponent but got badly cut in the process. His owner won 5500 pesos, but the cock died at his feet. I watched the man stuff the cash in his pocket, step over the dead bird and walk away. The words ‘Free Range’ were emblazoned on the back of his T-shirt.

It was not my thing at all, but in the Philippines it’s a national pastime, having been introduced by the Spanish hundreds of years ago. I imagine that not everyone is into it, but for some people it’s a big part of their life. It was bloody and vicious, but at least the dead birds weren’t wasted: they were taken next door to the restaurant where they were plucked, cooked and eaten. I suppose it didn’t really differ that much from the cruel way birds are treated in battery farms; and I suppose some of the cocks live to fight another day. But I had had enough. It was oppressive in the arena and I was feeling hot and sticky and dirty. The barn had been a cauldron of pulsing adrenaline. What I needed was some air; the wind in my face again. I spotted a feed truck parked across the road and asked the driver where he was going.

‘Unisan,’ he said, and pointed up the road.

That’ll do, I thought. ‘Can I get a lift?’

We spent the night at a farm owned by a Filipino senator named Suarez. It’s actually run by his son Jet, and since 2001 they’ve been working on a breeding programme for cattle and goats. The quality of livestock in the Philippines is not the best, and their aim is to distribute breeding pairs of high-quality cattle and goats to local farmers throughout the region.

Jet showed us around, then we sat down to relax with a few shots of the local moonshine: coconut vodka. It was serious stuff. I woke up with a dry mouth, pounding skull and the road to Manila ahead of me.

 

 

 

Jet was delivering a couple of goats to a farmer just outside Lucena and offered Claudio and me a lift. We were happy to accept and climbed on the back of the truck along with the two goats, who seemed truly loved up. They had plenty of hay for the journey but they had eyes only for each other and totally ignored it. All the way to their new home they stood behind the cab, taking it in turns to rest their head on each other.

We dropped them at a bamboo house that stood high above the road and was accessed by a flight of stone steps. Jet assured me that whatever babies the goats produced would be called Charley and Claudio, regardless of their sex. Pleased to know that my name would live on in this part of the world, we got back in the truck and the driver took us to Lucena.