6/7107

As with most of my south-east Asian adventures so far the Philippines began in Bangkok, my final visit to a city I have grown to have a hate-love relationship with. This time around it verged more on the love edge of the spectrum mostly due to staying in the brilliant My House hostel tucked round the corner of Rambuttri Street which not only requires navigating a pathway lined with rotis but having accomplished this permits you to snooze in the great little chilled lounge downstairs showing films on the big screen which offered a more relaxing alternative to the boozing of Khao San Road. Such downtime was required after the heart attack of shipping home 14kg of acquired goods leaving my bag considerably lighter and easier to haul around the archipelagic Philippines.We had a quick flight down to Kuala Lumpur staying in a room that literally had room only for a double bed to the extent that we couldn't open the door properly and had to squeeze our bags through the chink of space offered. Arriving at 10pm and leaving at 3.30am it wasn't the most plentiful of sleeps especially when we had to be at our most alert whilst loitering in the depths of the bus station basement defending ourselves from dog-sized rats...Four hours later we touched down in Clark - the cheap AirAsia airport two hours north of Manila and famous for little else than its prolific red-light district - catching a bus featuring Step Up on its screens (!) into the capital. We had heard lots of negative things about Manila, one being the extortionate prices, and this was in evidence when checking into a dorm room that cost us more for our solitary beds than we'd paid together anywhere in Laos! Having said this Friendly Guest House more than compensated with a fantastic rooftop lounge, huge selection of DVDs and books to play on the TV, internet by the sofas and a giant kitchen complete with mammoth fridge where we could indulge in the rare luxury of making our own food.Asides from the appalling traffic there is actually little justification to the disservice that all our prior reports had delivered in anticipation of our visit to Manila. Staying in Malate we were halfway between the old historic Spanish quarter of Intramurros and the thriving cheap cafe night life and so being good tourists we trawled around the museums and parks during the day and saw out the nights in some incredible bars.Manila, and indeed the Philippines, is most famous for, and most indebted to, Josef Rizal, a young revolutionary doctor who lived at the end of the nineteenth century and resisted the corruption of the colonial Spanish. Whilst never advocating violence or uprisings his publications were highly inflammatory to the extent that the Spanish decided to execute him to cease the uproar he was causing amongst the locals only to find this backfired when the said masses decided to revolt after learning of his execution. This is probably the most celebrated moment in the country's history and as a result most of the historic tributes refer to this. The huge Rizal gardens offer an oasis of peace and quiet amongst the snarling multi-laned roads with their serenic Japanese gardens, fountains and grassy areas littered with young dance troupes in earnest practise. It also includes a gigantic monument of Rizal and a newly formed commemorating garden to his legend which features gigantic metal sculptures of his execution where he was shot by a firing squad overseen by the priests.Continuing through the Intramurros you reach Fort Santiago at the opposite end. This historic castle has been the site of most of the military battles for the city and country and was where Rizal was imprisoned before his execution. The room he was kept in has been mocked up as it would have been, complete with the alcohol lamp that he stashed his famous poem to the Filipino people, 'My Last Farewell,' urging them to continue to remain true to their nation and not give into the corruption and oppression of the Spanish. This lamp was left to his sister and the officials not realising what was hidden in it handed it to her without question only for her to release it and cause an American supported rebellion that eventually saw the Spanish driven out and many, many years later the current Philippines established. While we were visiting the fort a group of school children were re-enacting the scenes of execution for a film project and dressed up in the traditional clothes performed the whole process from the dungeon to the spot of execution which has been marked by the authorities with a path of golden footsteps that signify the final route taken by Rizal.Asides from the testaments to Rizal we also managed to visit the National Museum which hoards an archive of relics recovered from the sunken 16th century San Diego boat and details the history of the Filipino people. It was heartbreaking to read that American intervention was not provided to establish their independence but win a colony that even in the twentieth century the Americans had the audacity to buy for $20million from the vanquished Spaniards before the atrocities suffered in the Second World War eventually led to them finally being granted their independence in 1946. Since then the country has lurched from crisis to crisis, mostly due to a national tendency to elect charismatic personalities rather than policies or philosophies to lead their country. They have elected either a series of good-looking, yet clueless, actors or voted with their emotions electing widows of previous Presidents with just as alarming consequences best summed up by the shoe-loving Imelda Marcos who with her husband have driven the country into bankruptcy but she can still be seen swanning around the capital in her soft-top car apparently with no sense of guilt!The museum also hosted on the top floor the National Artists' competition winners and runners-up and we had a brilliant time looking around the gallery of sixty odd entrants, though sadly the winners had been taken down and shipped to the ASEAN competition so we were unable to offer our highly esteemed opinion of whether they were justified!Our days of culture ended with a hilarious moment in the Cathedral. Having been closed during the day, on our way back to our hostel we discovered a side entrance that was open and snook in to take a peek. There was a bit of commotion going on near the alter with lights and musicians and we thought some kind of concert must be going on as the church filled up with important looking well-dressed people. Only as the band played out Canon In D to which lines of red satin clothed women were escorted up the aisle did we realise to our horror that we had gatecrashed an important wedding! As everyone had been fussing around apart from a few contemptuous looks which we attributed to wearing shorts and sweaty t-shirts in a shirt we had had no idea of what was going on. We then suffered the embarrassment of being caught on camera by the roving cameramen as we were seated in the pew opposite where they decided to set up and film the entrance of all the distinguished guests. By the time Robbie Williams' 'Angels' was belted out and the bride delivered by her father we were completely stuck and only once all the cameras had backtracked to the altar for the ceremony did we have an escape exit and leaving through the main doors found ourselves accosted by many ordinary well-wishers peering in through the windows trying to get a glimpse of the action. Goodness knows what they thought but we managed a swift get-away, abandoning the traditional horse and cart taxis for a less conspicuous exit!Our nights were spent alternating between the cinema (watched the fantastic, very black, 'Dark Knight') and the great live music scene centred around the main square in Malate. We flitted from the salsa at Havanna's to the jam -rock sessions at The Penguin to some incredibly corny karaoke in a dingy bar down the side streets. I had never associated live music with the Philppines but every bar and cafe offered something and there was too much to choose from to even begin to sate our whetted appetites.Slightly worse for wear we had a flight the following day to Caticlan on a tiny little plane complete with airstaff who wore khaki shorts and flowery shirts in lieu of a uniform, enjoying a lively taxi journey with a Canadian from our hostel who took great comic outrage in arguing with the driver who professed to not know where we had asked to go when confronted with the fact that he was driving the opposite way to the airport.... Touching down we then had the circus of catching a ferry to the small party island of Borocay which necessitated having to buy three separate tickets for the boat, terminal and environmental fee! Combined, this 10 minute boat ride, was nearly as expensive as the whole flight!While Manila did not match up to the reports we had been given, Borocay lived up to every praise uttered in its name. Basically a 7 km expanse of sand known imaginatively as White Beach with stacks of bars, restaurants and water sport ventures there is enough to keep you here for weeks. We started with the intention of spending a few days in order to do my kiteboarding course but the first few days were perfect sun, cloudless skies and no winds and so the course kept getting deferred meaning we had the unfortunate imposition of lying on the beach, gorging ourselves on the all-you-can-eat buffets (with strict penalty fines for not finishing our plates!) and indulging in the ridiculously cheap local San Miguel beers from our balconied room in La Isla Bonita, a hop, skip and jump from the aforementioned beach!

Somewhat ironic given the number of times I've been on a tennis court, or about to step on one, praying for the wind to disappear and when I finally want it I'm faced with a sea as flat as the pancakes I'm comfort-eating to pass the time. Finally on our fourth day there, and fourth day of traipsing all the way up the beach from our room to the kiteboarding venue..., there was enough wind to begin and I promptly spent most of the afternoon wrestling with stunt kites, failing to get the hang of the dual arm pumping motion and sending my kite crashing into the sand over and over again, thus ensuring I got my money's worth from the guys who race out of the huts to launch the fallen kites. Once I finally got the hang of it I progressed to the fourteen metre kite proper having to somewhat scarily harness myself into what can only be described as a steel nappy which when the wind catches your kite rides up as the most uncomfortable wedgie that causes the most spectacular bruising. I was a tad nervous when my instructor left me to play with the kite by myself and instantly forgot everything I learned and sent the latex monstrosity hurtling to the sand and with incredible precision managed to wrap it twice round a fellow learner staring innocently out to the sea garrotting him with my hundreds of strings...It was fast becoming one of those activities that I thought I would love but in reality finding I had no aptitude was wishing it would come to an end. Ending day one a bit disillusioned I was tempted to cut it short and claim my money back but my instructor, a German-Filipino called Maurice, who had the patience of a severly martyred saint encouraged me back and sure enough when I turned up the next day I was like a different person. Having spent the whole of the first day just trying to grapple with the basics they came instantly to hand and soon I was in the sea upwind and downwind dragging and in complete control of my kite so that Maurice was able to retreat to the safety of the beach without having to spend every five minutes picking my fallen kite up and relaunching it by hand (as by then I had perfected the solo launch:)). I spent about four hours in the water with my kite that day in what was the hardest workout I have ever endured. Not only do you have to constantly look up at your kite, giving you the stiffest neck the following day, but in having to hold your position in the moving sand and against the buffeting waves which crash over your head (allowing you only to think about keeping the kite up before wondering how and when you might breathe again) as well as being whipped through the waters when your kite unexpectedly catches a tornado of wind you develop a perfect six pack (though by the end of the second day I could barely traipse back to our accomodation!) The final day saw me tackling the kiteboard and putting the two together. After about an hour I had worked the board and was about to practise riding it with my kite when the snarling wind, with absolutely no forewarning, disappeared and we were forced back onto the beach hoping, along with every other kiteboarder for a returning wind. By 6pm, and after three hours of lying on the beach, there was no wind and having to leave the island the next day I was begging Maurice to go back out on the waters in the falling dusk just so I could at least ride on the board once and managed to talk him into taking me in the light breeze. What Maurice hadn't told me was that the strange cloud formations signalled the arrival of a squall which he believed once it had whipped through would have enough of a drag for us to catch and use to ride. Ignorant of the impending catastrophe I hooked my feet into the board, readied my kite and on his count pushed up into the wind and onto the water succeeding, finally, in riding my first kiteboard. It lasted all of a few seconds as I toppled headfirst over my board and into the sea. Coming up spluttering I saw my kite nosediving towards the water and desperate not to land it in the sea used all my strength to hook it back up the following direction towards the sky. When you do this you enter the most powerful part of the wind window and you have to be careful to steady it so you don't go shooting off the other side. Unfortunately, belly down in the water with my hands submerged and trapped I was in no real position to prevent it being caught by the squall that broke just at that moment and the next thing I knew my kite was rocketing towards the beach with me harnessed into it lying flat and facedown into the water completely out of control. It was only when we reached the shallows that my feet pushed up on the sand and righted me into an upright position that I could see what was happening, but this same motion gave my kite that final bit of power to pull me clean out of the water and a couple of metres into the sky heading straight towards the forest of palm trees. Maurice had seen what was happening and had luckily already been sprinting towards me on the beach so that with his 6'5 frame jumping into the air he managed to catch me just before I got splattered against the trees and haul me down to safety. A tad shaken and very, very bruised by my steel nappy we abandoned the kite and dived to the shelter only for us to be greeted with sheer derision by all the pros huddled inside for attempting to ride in a squall!!! Was a dramatic end to the day and the course but I was delighted to have ridden my board and to have thrown in a bit of flying for free!!!

We celebrated that evening with a gorgeous Mexican meal, watching Arsenal on the big screen and Mike's ladyboy stalker once again managing to pick him out of the crowds as we made our way home;)

We were both really sad to leave Borocay as the island is a brilliant place to stay with so much going on as well as having the best beach either of us had seen. It was probably also partly due to the fact that we had spent a whole week there (because of waiting for winds) which had allowed us the illusion of beginning to settle in one place, unpacking our bags, singling out our favourite eaterie and drinkeries and getting to know the area and its inhabitants. But it was back on the ferry to Caticlan and then a five hour bus round the coast of Panay to Ilolio where we boarded another ferry to the island of Negos and eventually stopped off for the night in Bacolod. Having only seen the grime of Manila and the beach of Borocay this multi-vesselled journey offered us a glimpse of non-touristy Philippines as we drove through jungled rainforests and tiny villages of corrugated iron huts with children playing out in the dust as their parents tugged away in the ricefields lining the road.

We were so tired we saw nothing of Bacolod except the hotel we stayed in (and conveniently caught the Olympic Tennis finals!) and rose so early to catch our bus that I wouldn't even know where we stayed if we had to go back again. It was another epic journey that morning as we caught another bus to Sipalay, an 18km tricycle ride and then an extortionate longboat that sailed us around the spit and into the secret, secluded cove of Sugar Beach - a gorgeous stretch of beach and jungle reminiscent of Robinson Crusoe adventures. It only has a couple of buildings and we opted to stay in the cute, cabana style huts at Driftwood Village set up and owned by Swissman Peter and his Filipino wife Daisy who were the perfect hosts. In addition, the rest of the staff are made up of Daisy's large family who all are christened with names beginning with 'D' so that we were well looked after variously by Divines, Dorothys, Dinas and Delilahs!

We spent a gloriously lazy couple of days lounging in our bungalow (Cockatoo Hut), swinging in the hammocks, lapping up the sun and swimming in the sea. This was exactly what I needed after the injuries suffered from my three days kiteboarding as in addition to my steel nappy bruises and aching abs my feet had been sliced open on the coral when my kite would catch a gust of wind and drag you through the water before you reigned it in. Given the packed tourism of Borocay it was the perfect antidote with its absence of tourists and secluded hideaway location. On top of that Peter knows exactly how to keep his guests at the Beach having hired in a top Thai chef to teach his clan of girls (who he calls the chicken coop owing to their striking ability to crow the same things at the same time so that when you order a meal or ask for a towel you are greeted with a perfect chorus of five voices that materialise out of nowhere!) how to cook so that we were treated to round-the-clock food cooked to perfection. The nights were spent either huddled around the huge bonfire built on the beach engaging in Flo Rida dance-offs with the staff or in the quirky games room where again visitors could take on the staff at pool, darts and fusball, invoking severe penalties if you lost.

When we had recovered and were able to tear ourselves away from the peace and quiet and delicious food it was another longboat and two buses around the coast of Negros to reach the port of Dumaguette for another night's stop-off. We were traveling at this time with an Irish lifeguard called Steven who in bolstering our numbers warned off the touts and reduced prices of shared costs such as taxis and accomodation which was an added bonus. Dumaguette is described in the books as a genial campus city with a great student feel so were looking forward to a chilled night, but having been cocooned in the haven of Sugar Beach were completely unprepared for the snarl of jeepneys and tricycle dust that seemed to ensnare the whole town. We eventually found a cool little restaurant on the seafront called WhyNots where we ate and waited for the promise of live music that never came before having to give up on the town and head back to the spooky Vintage Inn which seemed to be modelled on a WWII hospital (with a shopping centre running straight through it...)

The following day introduced us to the joys of Filipino ferries! We had been relatively lucky up to that point in that huge tourist areas like Borocay have very regular ferries operating every 15 minutes or so. In untouristy Philippines we were faced with the usual lottery of ferry operation whereby no such thing as a timetable exists and companies only operate as and when they feel like. Having got up early to get the 11am ferry and get to our next destination before dark we found billboards with 'cancelled' signs run through them, and every succeeding ferry after that until mid-afternoon. There's nothing you can do except offer the typical Filipino smile and resign yourself to an unpleasant few hours in the heat of the sun stranded at the port and hope, against hope, that the promised afternoon service won't cancel. Fortunately it wasn't and we were able to get across to Siquijor just before dark and haggle a tricycle for the three of us and all our bags (!) to take us to the northern coast where we settled in to a beached cottage at the aptly named Islanders' Paradise resort which is host to the annual turtle egg-laying invasion. Still caked in the sweat from loitering at the ferry terminal all day Mike and I couldn't resist the turquoise sea lapping at our door in the evening dusk and ran into the sea only to find to our immense disappointment that as far as we waded the water never rose above our calves! As we progressed further we had to negotiate huge coral beds and banks of weeds that halted our advance and reluctantly turned back. It was only then that we noticed the coral and weeds we had carelessly charged through in our haste to get to the sea were littered with huge black spiky urchins. How we hadn't stepped on one was a miracle, but according to Steven we made a great sight tip-toeing back through the water as the sun faded clutching to each other!

Islanders' Paradise is run by an old English guy from Croydon called Brian and his considerably younger Filipion wife, Iffi, as a pet project that allows them to come back to the Philippines for some sun and fun a couple of months a year. The resort is staffed by Iffi's family and friends and has that lacksadaiscal feel to it which was best exemplified in the kitchen; boasting a giant menu that offered a rainbow selection of food we would order from it only for the woman behind the counter to run into the kitchen to confer with her colleagues and emerge to tell us that that particular dish wasn't available. After several conferences and polite apologies and an inability to convey to them our request to find out what was available we asked them simply to surprise us!

Siquijor is famous for its witches, shamans and alternative health doctors who congregate in the three days between Good Friday and the Resurrection when the absence of God allows them to practise their crafts. For the rest of the year they go 'underground' on the island so that it is impossible even for Brian and Iffi to know who is and isn't a witch - even the owner of the resort next to ours was a professed witch! This isn't dark magic but more of an animistic, spiritual folklore. While the Philippines is officially predominantly Catholic most of the rural Filipinos on islands without churches or priests declare themselves as Catholic but actually practise a combination of Christianity and traditional folk beliefs so that it is common to find money hidden in hollows of trees as offerings from the locals to the spirits of the forests.

We had planned to take a motorbike around the small island and explore it for ourselves but having hired the bike and decided to practise it before taking it on the road Mike ended up hitting a cactus bush and then when changing gear careered into a tree that sent the bike crashing to the floor and him hurtling off the side. The staff rushed to check the bike was intact and mortified to discover a tiny scratch in the paintwork while Mike was left to pick himself up off the floor - I was far too busy bent double laughing to offer any help! After witnessing this Brian said he would give us a tour in his jeepney instead - an altogether much safer means of circumnavigating the roads full of darting chickens and dogs - though I suspect he wanted to be out of the house as his son received his A-level results by post!

As well as being able to show us all the spots of the island that we would never have found by ourselves Brian threw in a free tourguide in the shape of the cook who as a local knew the island like the back of her hand! We wound our way around the coast and then drove inland to the mountain that rises out of the centre. Brian and the chef waited at the bottom trying to unearth the mysterious rattling while Mike and I climbed the mound which doubles up as the Stations of the Cross route so that at every flattening out of the path was featured one of the stations locked away into a wooden cross with a glass window so that we felt as if were doing a pilgrimage! At the top lie the three crosses of the crucifixion and then above them a rusty watchtower which despite climbing had our view of the island hidden by the canopy of the unpruned trees!

Returning to Islanders' Paradise we left Brian to deal with the fallout between his wife and son and crept down the steep incline to the beach to catch sunset and the army of metallic blue crabs scuttling across the sand. I have never been to a beach that is so still, both of us agreed that it was almost eerie. In the two nights we spent on the beach there wasn't even so much as a ripple across the flatness of the water; even the miniscule waves that broke on the sand were like a whisper. It was as if we were standing in a huge vacuum where every sound, even our voices, got sucked into the void. It was as I imagine standing on the edge of the world would feel like.

Having seen all we wanted and deterred by the invasion of ants into every line and crack of our hut we left Siquijor and took a ferry via Dumaguette again onto the island of Bohol. Navigating a tricycle from the port to the bus terminal and then one of those public buses that I have come to love and loathe we got dropped off at the entrance to Nuts Huts. In the midday sun we had a 1km walk with all our bags on a tiny path cut into the rainforest; even when we thought we had arrived we were faced with a steep drop into which 276 steps were hewn before we even reached the reception. Bohol is famous for its rainforest jungle and the brave owners of Nuts Huts have created a small retreat in the middle of the jungle for hardy backpackers with a spectacular lounge/restaurant/games floor cut into the side of the hill overlooking the emerald green Loboc river that makes the difficulty of getting to the resort worth every penny. They have cleverly even turned the steps to their advantage, incorporating them into the healthy-lifestyle ethos supplemented by their health foods menu, ideas for exercise and herbal sauna that they describe as exotic and erotic! We dropped our bags off in treehouse Casablanca and then lounged the afternoon away in the hammocks, playing tabletennis and enjoying watching the passing party boats chugging away miles below us.

Bohol is famous for two things: the chocolate hills and tarsier monkey, and in true tourist style we did both during our stay. The chocolate hills are a series of 1200 conical mounds in almost the exact same shape and height that protrude out of the valley floor. Formely coral deposits that formed under the sea, when the waters receded they were left as this bizarre quirk of nature. Locals are quick to romanticise them describing the myth of the heartbroken giant whose tears fell to the ground and crystallised when they hit the floor as these chocolate drops (so called because in the burnt out dry season become browned and do look exactly like giant chocolates!) However, if you speak to those locals not bothered about wooing tourists you will hear the alternative explanation that they exited the opposite end of the giant....Having scorned the tourist package Mike and I had made our way to the hills by ourselves and whilst indulging in the photo opportunities offered by the watchtower on the highest of the chocolate hills then hired a motorbike (and driver after our previous experience!) and scurried in and out of the drops, stopping off to climb them and being introduced to The Triplets, The Nipples and the Eight Sisters by our driver who also took us into his home village and allowed us to stop off and meet some of the locals who live in the shadows of these giant molehills.

The following day we took a jeepney (like a squashed minibus - with no ac!) to the Tarsier sanctuary in Loboc established in the 90s to protect the Tarsier of which this particular species is native only to the Philippines. There a guide took us around the sanctuary which is their natural habitat in a huge wired pen, and showed us about five or six little Tarsiers, weird Gollumesque creatures about five inches big with a huge hairless rat's tail, large saucer eyes and knobbly knuckled fingers and toes with which it clutches to branches. You could hardly call these animals cute but they are certainly eye-catching! I was being all David Attenborough and getting up close to take pictures of these poor nocturnal animals whose yellow eyes grew and grew as my camera got closer and closer! The resident star of the sanctuary is Charlie, the little Tarsier who popped out to welcome the Prince of Charles when he visited the Philippines, in lieu of his angry parents who stayed hidden away in their cage! There are only about ten in the sanctuary (including a mother and baby that we spotted) but it is doing sterling work in protecting this endangered species who has suffered from having its natural habitat destroyed by deforestation and the epidemic of cats to the islands that feast on the poor mites and it was a privilege to be able to see such a rare animal at such close and natural quarters.

After leaving Nuts Huts we had to get a jeepney back to Tagbilaran where we were due to fly back to Manila. Like Dumaguette or Bacolod there wasn't much to recommend it and we ended up spending the evening there watching the new X-Files movie in the mall for just over a pound! We did however discover the fantastic Garden Cafe, a project set up to provide work for thirty deaf people in the city. With Mike's knowledge of sign language we were firm favourites and rewarded with one of the best meals I have had in the Philippines, a perfectly toasted chicken quesadilla followed by a blueberry pie!

Arriving back in Manila was like coming home as we checked into Friendly's, dined at Dematisse and enjoyed one final night's celebration before having to catch the bus to Clark where we were to fly out of. Clark is a former American air base (former as in the Americans fled the base in the early 90s when a potent volcano erupted and nearly destroyed a whole city dependent on the employment and economy the air industry had provided them with...) and is now famous only for its rife prostitution - we lost count of the number of pot-bellied, middle aged European men trumpeting young girls on their arms...We were saved fortuitously by a typhoon that hit the city almost as we checked into our hotel and was so fierce that we could do nothing but watch HBO in our rooms and eat in the restaurant.

It was sad finally having to say goodbye to the Philippines as considering it was a last minute decision proved to be one of the best places I have visited. Its people are unbelievably friendly and so laidback, it offers a complete diversity of natural wonders with great tourist opportunities for adventures and watersports and serves an incredible array of food (and not to mention the cheapest beers I have ever found!) With 7107 islands we only managed to get our way around six of them and I left this country, unlike any others on my travels so far, with the feeling that I have only barely scraped the surface.... BEST PLACE: La Isla Bonita, Borocay - beach on our doorstep, giant room with sea-facing balcony and a whole strip of incredible restaurants and bars within stumbling distance!
BEST FOOD: Red Horse tinnies - especially when supped on a balcony, Mister Donut, Garden Cafe quesadilla. All the food was so good that Mike has a new friend called Winston who sits on his belly.

WHAT I'M GOING TO MISS: Kiteboarding! 30p beers! Island hopping. Tarsier monkeys

WORST PLACE: Many of the port towns are just grimy, dirty places that seem to know they're only useful for stopping over

WORST FOOD: Tried to love the national dish of adobo but far too spicy and tomatoey...

MOST BIZARRE: Having spent weeks trying to cultivate a Chris-Turnbullesque beard I eventually had to give in to the comments that I looked more trampish than distinguished and hack it off in Manila only to have a conversation with one of the girls in our dorm who we had got friendly with to discover that she thought I was a newcomer who had just arrived until I informed her it was still me...Mike's incredible talent to attract ladyboys no matter which island we were on!
BOOKS:'The Woman In White' - Wilkie Collins (So good to read a classic again, and this was an absolute ripper, supposedly the first ever Crime book), 'The Kitchen God's Wife' - Amy Tan (Beautiful story of the struggle of a Chinese mother and her American daughter to communicate, where language is only the smallest of barriers when compared to the horrors suffered in the war), 'The Good German' - Josef Kanon (The story itself is neither here nor there but Kanon's attention to detail of what life was like in the war, and more pertinently in the immediate aftermath of war, reminds you of the full horrors that were suffered and meted out in WWII), 'Tooth and Nail; - Ian Rankin (Bowing once again to Mike's choice and realising that Rankin is selling out a bit as this book is clearly written with one foot in the TV series and royalty cheques...), 'Papillion' - Henri Charriere (Incredible true life story of one French prisoner condemned to labour camps in the Caribbean and his determination to escape to the point that you can barely believe what he had to endure), 'Tesseract' - Alex Garland (One of the BEST modern novels I have read, written in the fragmented postmodernist style of interweaving stories but set in the Philippines which having traveled through as I read added another dimesion to its potency). 'Age of Innocence' - Edith Wharton (Saved by its incredibly sad ending that finally justifies the sacrifices offered by two people who love each other but cannot be together because of the people it would hurt), 'Manual of the Warrior of Light' - Paulo Coehlo (Didactic tails on how to live your life with enough gems in them to stave off the drone of the repeating messages); 'The Seven Dials' - Agatha Christie (Been ages since I read Ms Christie and while this isn't a Poirot genius, the tongue-in-cheek parody offers a humour I'd never found before in her books)

BEST QUOTES: "Our words are giants when they do us an injury, and dwarfs when they do us a service" and "'This is a matter of curiosity; and you have got a woman for your ally. Under such conditions success is certain'" ('Woman In White' - Wilkie Collins); "It had never happened that way, but he had a memory of it all the same" ('Tooth and Nail' - Ian Rankin); "We have too much technological progress, life is too hectic, and our society has only one goal: to invent still more technological marvels to make life even easier and better. The craving for new scientific discovery breeds a hunger for greater comfort and the constant struggle to achieve it. All that kills the soul, kills compassion, understanding, nobility. It leaves no time for caring what happens to other people" ('Papillon' - Henri Charriere); "Although I have been through all that I have, I do not regret the many hardships I met; because it was they who brought me to the place I wished to reach...I carry with me the marks and scars of battles - they are the witnesses of what I suffered and the rewards of what I conquered." (Bunyan); "...the warrior knows that intuition is God's alphabet and he continues listening to the wind and talking to the stars", "A warrior knows that an angel and a devil are both competing for his sword hand. The devil says 'You will weaken. You will not know exactly when. You are afraid.' The angel says 'You will weaken. You will not know exactly when. You are afraid.' The warrior is suprised. Both angel and devil have said the same thing. Then the devil goes on: 'Let me help you.' And the angel says: 'I will help you.' At that moment the warrior understands the difference. The words may be the same, but these two allies are completely different. And he chooses the angel's hand." ('Manual of the Warrior of Light' - Paulo Coehlo)