the overlander

A look at the Phillipines

richardfrancis — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 19:18:00 GMT

After finally managing to persuade those helpful chaps at Taiwanese immigration to let us out of the country we headed for Manila. The Phillippines had just seen the first typhoon strength storm of the season and as such some of the air south of Tawain was still a touch wobbly. As it goes, I would certainly not recommend flying through a typhoon unless you really have nothing better to do - investigating the efficiency of
your septic tank with the kitchen sieve and a pair of tweezers perhaps.
90 mins of the 2 hour flight from Taipei involved levels of pacific
turbulence severe enough to relieve even the most stubborn and
persistent constipation, the pilots included. Trying to maintain an air
of calm was certainly difficult when most people around us, including
the cabin crew, were emitting continual sounds of alarm ranging from
uncomfortable 'ooh's to full blown screaming. Of course, I
chivalrously offered the young lady next to me as much comfort as I could while both
hands were welded to the arm rests and my face was locked in a pale,
silent, open mouth expression of abject terror.

It turned out to be well worth the additional colonic stimulation
though with some fantastic countryside and tremendously friendly people
awaiting our arrival. Manila is a thick, sultry kind of a place but it's
certainly interesting, the traffic and the pollution extreme
in the extremest sense of the word. The city heaves under its thick
blanket of nasty orange air from dawn to dusk as the estimated 20
million population try in vain to make their way around the city. The
poverty was a stark contrast to the relative development of Taiwan with
many people forced to make a home for themselves on the pavements,
usually out of whatever they can find in the local trash. Watching
young mothers bedding their infants down for the night next to an open
drain is not easy.
We quickly found positive discrimination to be alive and well though in
the city. Stumbling through a small round door off one of the side
streets in search of refreshment we found ourselves within the low
ceilings of 'The Hobbit House'. Staffed exclusively by midgets, it took
us a moment to work out who was asking us what we'd like to order from
underneath our table. No doubt the equal opportunities commission would
be delighted to see Phillipino small business leading the way in
lowering unemployment among the vertically challenged.

Out of Manila the volcanic landscapes were green and lush. We ploughed
through the countryside on absurdly overcrowded and painfully slow
buses en route to the boats heading for the neighbouring island of
Mindoro. We stayed briefly on its northern coast, enjoying the superb
home cooking of a very nice lady who put us up for a few days and
sampling the local diving. Unfortunately the efficiency with which
unsuspecting fish can be extracted from the comfort of their coral
homes with a stick of dynamite wedged into a milk bottle has decimated
the local reefs beyond belief. It really was very sad. One can only
imagine what might have lain in wait beneath the surface fifty or even
twenty years ago. The glut of overweight Europeans sunning themselves in what i can only imagine were originally child's speedos was sadly equally unpleasant on the eye and as such we didnt stay long.

I did manage to squeeze in a quick and ludicrously expensive fishing trip on board one of the local boats though, keen to try and hook into a tuna if at all possible. As it turns out we didnt actually catch anything. The skipper kindly seated me at the back of the boat in direct line of the exhaust fumes though, leaving me far more interested in the pink dolphins dancing around my head than the fact that I wasnt getting any bites.

Keen for some genuine white sand action we headed for Boracay, often
found somewhere in the endlessly debateable list of the worlds top ten
beaches. The journey was long and without much incident bar the
unfortunate squashing of a sadly innattentive dog midway there.
However, with the considerable noise our jeepney was making in
achieving relatively little momentum we concluded he was probably of no
great loss to the local canine gene pool.

Boracay was stunning, even more so than we had heard with many saying
that it was easily hyped. The sand and the water were both equally magnificent, perhaps best enjoyed from a gentle sunset cruise onboard one of the local catamarans.
We were out of season but the weather was unaware, the island still joyously free from the hordes of Korean tourists who flock there with the sunshine and persist in sponsoring the addition of 75 storeys where ever they can fit them. Anyone thinking of having a look for themselves should make it quick though- it'll be Surfer's Paradise within two years.

The Chinese Toilet

richardfrancis — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 19:05:00 GMT

The Chinese toilet is a thing of wonder; not in a good way you
understand but in a 'I wonder how on earth I can be so desperate as to
consider using this' way. Many consist of a hole in the ground with two
planks either side and only enjoy the cleansing effects of running
water when it rains sufficiently hard to start the roof leaking again.
The smell is often so horrendous that it necessitates the use of a
strong cigarette regardless of whether or not you actually smoke. You
get the picture.

So, having spent a very enjoyable yet tiring morning perusing the famed
Terracotta Warriors of Xi'an, we decided it was time to adjourn for a
bite to eat. Choices were somewhat limited outside of the lavishly
expensive buffet within the warrior park but we managed to locate a modest eatery a little further down the road from where we might catch a bus back to town. Sadly the fried rice was as disappointing as i had feared from the flies swarming around our table before we'd even sat down.

After a number of internal rumblings I quickly realised I was going to need to visit a water closet before attempting the confined two hour ride back to the city.

As I picked my way through an alleyway outside the back of the
restaurant in the general direction the waitress had pointed, I became
acutely aware that this was not going to be a happy experience. Still,
my lower intestine was becoming quite insistent, my step quickening accordingly. Old men in their underwear were standing around
cleaning bits of utterly useless scrap metal (as they are want to do
here) and staring at me as I splashed on through the puddles of
stagnant water. I should of known that their vacant stares were trying
to tell me something. Taking a deep breath, I headed for a tapless
stained sink I could see propped up on a wall at the far end of the
path.

On arrival I noticed a torn curtain half hanging over a hole to my
right with a faded sign sporting a distinguised gent in top hat and
tails hanging lopsidedly over the door. Now, you should understand that I wasnt exactly expecting a warm towel, shoulder massage and a range of current eau de toilettes, but what awaited me was far worse than I'd considered possible.
Behind the raggy drape were two squat toilets, neither connected to
running water and without a partition in between. Both were filled with
several piles of excrement and one was overflowing a particularly
malodorous brown liquid into large pools around the both of them. The
air was filled with flies and mosquitos and the smell was quite frankly
beyond description for a writer with far more talent than I.

It was the last stage on the scale before you make a conscious decision
to revert to using your underwear again. Had I not had my boots on and
been wearing flip flops it would have been off the said scale. My mind
wandered to whether a course of cholera prophylaxis had been on offer
at my visit to the GPs clinic, and indeed if it had, whether I had
bothered to get involved. I feared I hadnt.

A dangerous urgency necessitated that I take the plunge. As I rounded
the cloth, lowered my shorts and crouched into what i sincerely hoped
would be my most efficient visit to the toilet in some time, I realised
that my sojourn to the gentlemens room had not gone unnoticed. As I
tried desperately to maintain my balance and concentrate on not
becomming the victim of what would surely have been a fatal toppling
over, a spritely young fellow popped his head around the curtain and
gave me friendly smile. Before I had time to even register this gross,
mid flow invasion of my privacy he had introduced himself around the
curtain and was brandishing a bucket of water at me.

Before i could even think 'please dont try and flush it' he hurled the
contents at the other toilet, sending a wave of its unsightly contents
surging around the rest of the room. Somehow it missed me on both laps
but I was certainly keen to get out out of there before he tried it
again.
No sooner had he disappeared than he was back again though, this time
immediately dropping his trousers and adopting a well practiced crouch
position just 18inches to the side of me. As he looked over to meet my
astonished gaze, he gave me a little nod - perhaps in much the same way
one might acknowledge a familiar fellow commuter with a tip of the cap
at the morning bus stop - before rapidly proceeding to replace what his
bucket had just removed to the far corner. Dazed by what was turning
out to be one of my most unusual experiences to date and the fact that
I had just defecated in the immediate personal space of another human
being, I suddenly realised that I was done and proceeded to get out as
quickly as i could without slipping over- although of course not
before returning the nod.

In short, if you value anything resembling privacy, or have even minor
issues involving the cleanliness of bathroom facilities, i recommend
that you invest your ticket to beijing in a lazyboy next summer and settle yourself down in front of the telly. You're considerably less likely to have any complete strangers turn up and hurl raw sewage at you.

The Chinese Dentist

richardfrancis — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 18:47:00 GMT

Much to my distress, a painful toothache revealed itself whilst we were out and about on our exploration of south western China. After a brief consideration of the matter I quickly became rather concerned about what exactly a trip to the local dentist might involve.

When one finds oneself someway from home and out in the wilds, a sense of vulnerability to medical misfortune can rear its ugly head from time to time. A slow drip feed of horror stories involving emergency appendectomies are at least partly to blame. Usually performed with a hoof cleaner and an IV fashioned from a drinking straw, carrier bag and a couple of pints of yak milk, they’re certainly enough to keep the potential for painful misfortune lurking somewhere in the minds of most travellers.

Having made it to Kunming, the provincial capital, I was hoping that at least I might be spared armrest straps, a famous grouse anaesthetic and a hammer.
“There’s a western style dentist but they don’t speak a word of the
Queen’s,” a helpful local expat had informed us. “Try the hospital –
it’s practically free.”

Off we plodded to the local infirmary. There wasn’t a great deal of
help on offer there either but we somehow managed to make it unscathed
through the hoards of incredibly ill looking people and up to the fifth
floor. After some cursory paperwork I was ushered into a room that at
least resembled what I remembered a dental clinic to look like. Well, in as much as people were planted in reclining chairs while men in white coats eagerly set about inflictin considerable pain on them, mainly through the dangerously unrestrained probing of their oral cavities.

Luckily, I found myself fortunate enough to play my part in the sharing
of knowledge across the generations, thrown as I was straight into what appeared to be the morning's YTS seminar. After 10 rather nervous minutes of thoughtful prodding and poking while eight shyly giggling student dentists peered into my gob, my ‘dentist’ confidently proclaimed that I had nothing to worry about. As delighted as I was to have avoided what I could only assume was derived from a corkscrew, and to have been party to the educational development of the Chinese Dental Service’s future, in
reality I’d only confirmed that there were eight undergraduates who
really should have just stayed in bed. Further examination that
afternoon at the private clinic revealed chronic decay under my most
recent filling and a fun filled month of root canal therapy. At least
it didn’t cost me 50 quid just to walk through his door though.

The Chinese Bus

richardfrancis — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 18:27:00 GMT

Although undoubtedly a richly diverse country with much to be proud of, some of China's residents' behaviour quite literally has to be seen
to be believed. A visit to the capital some weeks before had revealed
incredible scenes within the subway, trying to get oneself onto a Beijing
underground train at almost any time of day proving to be something of a test.

In an effort to try and ensure such uncivilised argy bargy is not present within the public bus system, a numbered seating system has been put in place.

With a guaranteed spot to park your behind safely on, you would assume that any pushing and shoving would be quite unnecessary. And you would be
wrong.

ChongQing Province; 48 happily seated people patiently awaiting the
departure of the 11.30 to Wanzhou.
“Ok, everybody off – we’re changing buses” yells the driver, although
perhaps not exactly in those words. Before he could even finish his
announcement, the other 46 people seemed to have immediately forgotten
how comfortably they were repaired in their allocated seats and were
piling through each other to get to the doors. Within another minute, a
full scale brawl had broken out on the station forecourt, the two
fellows closest to the doors of the replacement bus fist-fighting in a
vain attempt to get their mitts on the door handles. In the midst
of the seething mass, a young, heavily pregnant lady was being thrown
about with nauseatingly careless abandon.

After finally beating back some of the more frivolous alpha male contenders from the partially opened driver’s cabin, the mob was allowed entry- where the pushing and shoving continued apace for some minutes further before finally abating.
Whether or not anyone was blinded by the sudden realisation that they
were now all in exactly the same position they’d been in ten minutes
earlier was unclear. Apart from one or two bloody noses, everybody was
enjoying precisely the same level of comfort they had all enjoyed in
their specified seating on the last bus. No-one was suddenly crawling
around between half a dozen pregnant sows with a chicken wedged up
their backside, no-one now perched up on the parcel shelf. How we were
the only people who didn’t seem surprised by this I am still unsure
about.

India v The Rest of the World

richardfrancis — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 18:19:00 GMT

For six November days, the dusty town of Pushkar in Rajasthan hosts its celebrated camel festival, interest in the plague of malodorous quadrupeds adding 250,000 to its tiny population almost overnight. It was day one, and having just enjoyed the dangerously uncontrolled entrants in the camel cup career off of the track and into the crowd, I was looking to occupy myself. The PA cranked into life. Were any foreigners around who’d like to play in a cricket match?

Always keen for a knock, I immediately offered my services at the main arena. A square had been busily squashed and dyed, leaving the large sand enclosure looking perfect for a spot of beach cricket. Or so I thought. Do not be in any doubt about how seriously India takes cricket. After planting two sets of stumps fresh from the wrapping and opening a new box of ‘official cricket tennis balls’, we were instructed to form an XI.

The selectors weren’t given too much of a headache. Only four antipodeans and two poms actually understood why six small poles were now waiting to impale anyone not watching where they were going. Luckily, two Israeli chaps, although freely confessing to never having even seen a cricket match, were very keen. Despite having some difficulty with fine-leg being on the pitch and not up a sari somewhere in the front row, they made eight. It seems Poland won’t be emerging as a cricketing superpower anytime soon either- the young fellow from Warsaw we persuaded to play considerably more adept at running for cover with his arms wrapped around his head than collecting anything sent in his direction. A rather portly but enthusiastic American made our tenth and final recruit, a loan Indian embarrassingly required to complete the set. After close inspection he turned out not to be Rahul Dravid, but we kept him anyway.

Although slightly confused by how we’d only found six players in such a huge volume of people, we were ready. Worryingly, their team looked a little more ready, strangely choosing matching turbans, whites and trainers over assorted vests, boardies and flip-flops. We feared the worst.

It was, perhaps not surprisingly, absolutely baking standing around in the middle of the desert and we were keen to get cracking before heatstroke depleted our squad any further. No-one was rushing anywhere though, nearly an hour passing while they rustled up a local dignitary to pose for photos and preside over the toss. Concerned that our hosts didn’t seem to fully comprehend either how slapdash our side was or the ‘just for fun’ ideal, our skipper finally flicked the coin. Opting to let them bat first in order that the game last at least long enough for the announcer to read the team sheets, we were underway.

The format was an inventive Fifteen15, some powerful hitting required to bypass the rather absorbent outfield. Having five players who claimed to have at least bowled before, we were quietly confident of keeping them below 300. One of the Aussie’s took the first over. Almost straight away, their opener generously sent one straight up, high into the air. I watched it happily for sometime, excited by the chance of an early wicket, before realising it was up to me to catch it. Stumbling through the sand with the sun in my eyes, I somehow managed to get to it and hang on, sparking rapturous high-ten celebrations all round. Perhaps it mightn’t be so bad after all.

It wasn’t. Wickets tumbled regularly, diligent field placings and no pace whatsoever on the ball seeing catches go everywhere. One of the Israelis took a beauty and was subsequently delightfully confused by us all rubbing his chops and calling him ‘Jonty’. I also managed a little something with the ball, one of my devious off-breaks tempting their other opener into gifting one straight back to me. I’d have had two more bar some decidedly one-eyed umpiring, the officials for the game notably supplied by India.

Unfortunately, they were punishing our bad balls and although nine down by the end, had made a respectable 107. Still, we were delighted with our efforts. If two or three of us could get some runs we might even win.

Unfortunately, as with most sporting endeavours involving the English, we capitulated. Our fantastic Kiwi wicketkeeper headed out to open with the other Aussie. The pair hardly covered themselves in Glory. The Australian’s first hit went straight to Indian hands, shortly before his neighbour played round a straight one. 0/2. An Indian-Kiwi partnership followed, some pleasingly aggressive strokes taking us to 30 before another wicket sent me in.

I won’t offer too many excuses for my 7 ball duck except to say that a) the second innings surface of a sand pitch is marginally less predictable than that of a ploughed field, and b) using the half tree I was presented to bat with really required some sort of mechanical apparatus. I watched 5 wides, blocked one, and then nicked to the ‘keeper. Oops.

After our ‘I’m really more of a bowler’ captain, our rather lengthy tail sadly didn’t wag very much. The Israelis again did themselves proud to get us past 50, thanks in part to some slightly modified ‘newcomer’ bowling. Impressive, particularly when one had to be assisted by the bowler after trying to face his first ball with the bat the wrong way round.

All too soon it was over though, a credible performance but still inferior to the locals by some distance. Amusingly enough, the press were soon back in force but with very little interest in the victors. Swarms of locals surrounded us with scenes surreally reminiscent of the real thing. Great fun, although doing a post match interview for CNN’s national evening news is a little odd, especially if you normally play in front of more sheep than people.