A Philippine Breeze

Cebu

Cebu was one of the first regions the Spanish colonized. So, it’s natural that Cebu has the most historic of buildings in the Philippines. It was humid and warm when I got there, typical of the late monsoon season which sees so many a violent typhoon cross the Visayas and wreak havoc on the country. It was only a week before that a severe tropical storm (downgraded from a typhoon) tracked Luzon, leaving a devastating trail in the north. Typhoons occur with such regularity and consistency that they are merely treated as minor inconveniences. Almost immediately, the markets, shops and schools spring back to life the moment a typhoon departs. Of course, material damage often reminds the erstwhile sojourner - a broken zinc roof, collapsed bricks lying here and there - but to the seasoned resident, nothing has changed.

Cebu is a messy, messy city. People cross and jaywalk whenever they want, the cars honk incessantly, and dogs, cats and mice dart around. In the dimly lit streets at night, it’s almost as if you were transported back to the eighties. Cebu is also the central node of trade in the Visayas. Its night market spans a long and wide walk from downtown all the way to the harbor. Farmers, resellers, and coolies line the pathways, which are pockmarked with craters, pools of stagnant water accumulating after each light shower. I’m wearing sandals, so I have to be careful not to dip my feet into the dubious liquid. There are whistles and shouts, as people haggle and enquire about the produce. Cebu is right next to Bohol, a famed and naturally beautiful island formed out of rich, volcanic rock. Agriculture thrives everywhere, and the produce of the land is shipped off to other cities for sale and consumption.

I visited a parish museum. When the Spanish arrived in Cebu, the tribes living in the island archipelago were distinct units, separated by geography, genealogy and language. Spanish oppression and Catholic proselytizing went hand in hand - an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove, so to speak. Wherever the conquistador went, the priest followed. They erected shrines to Mother Mary and Jesus of Nazareth, oversaw birthing rituals and preceded over the collection of taxes. The Catholic Church was, emphatically, the state. Its priests wielded much political power, owned large tracts of land and sometimes, contrary to the Holy Word, engaged in less than admirable behavior. Perhaps the Lord could close his eyes so long as his flock increased with each year.

The Plane Ride

Rays of light slant over a narrow corridor leading to Surigao del Norte, and the city of Surigao appears over the horizon. The plane banks westward, adjusting itself to slip into the tight flight path descending into Siargao Island. The vast openness of the Pacific overwhelms the landscape, but as the plane banks even further—behold! The tear dropped shaped island comes into full view. Portside, specks of land that lead to the Visayas and Mindanao; and to the starboard, the Pacific void.

The plane now takes a straight path, aiming into the island from the southwest after coming half a circle around the south. It’s here that the plane banks the furthest eastward, slows down, and drops the landing gear. Incidentally heavy turbulence forms, as the low pressure regions meet with land, and cool winds from the Pacific sweep inward toward the Philippine archipelago. Turbulence builds, then a fear-inducing drop, as it fights the turbulence while attempting to land, sweeping side to side, thrashed by the wind. It takes a lot of skill to maneuver the turboprop, but as a passenger you can’t do anything but sit and pray, and close your eyes. A woman seated on the opposite aisle weeps in silence.

The windy, meandering rivers empty into a delta. They contrast with the straight cut roads leading to different settlements, almost always at the mouth. At this point the plane is almost 500 feet above the undulating hills, covered in a blanket of green. From above the trees look like algae. Out towards the Pacific, small islands are surrounded by beautiful coral, their black curvy shape standing apart from the ocean blue.

The plane hits the ground really hard. It swerves left and right. The landing gear kicks into full force. A sharp, screeching sound. The rubber burns. For a moment the force pushes me backward. I imagine the shape of my back imprinted against the seat. Then the PA system announced that we’ve landed. Thank god.

The Surf

The surf lies on an open reef. So there are sharp corals below. You see the oblong shaped things dotting the sea. They are interspaced by algae. Dark green algae that can make you slip underwater. The kuya, which is Cebuano for elder brother, is Kuya Dom. I was supposed to have a lesson with Kuya Wawe, but he met with an incident of sorts. The Filipinos are ambiguous at best when it comes to turning people down. Wawe told me he had an accident. Dom told me Wawe had an issue with his heart and then proceeded to tell me that he was heartbroken. It’s a funny, if not altogether whimsical, take on the English language. So Wawe asked his brother-in-law Dom to take his place because of an emotional accident.

Kuya Dom is from Davao. Davao is part of Mindanao. He is of shorter stature and his skin is brown. But damn, he can swim well. As do all of the surfing instructors. They glide easily across the surface of the water, paddling near the end of the barrel. It is partly physics and partly skill. As the wave dips the undercurrent forces you to the end of the barrel. Paddling diagonally ends up pushing you into the wave quite effortlessly. I flap my hands and barrel in the wrong direction. The wave crashes in my face. I am swept under. Whatever the case, it’s always good to spread yourself out like a starfish, then cover your head. The best thing is riding the wave upwards. But never ever position your board parallel to a crashing wave. It’s dangerous, they say, with characteristic understatement. The world could be ending in the next five minutes and Filipinos would say sorry for the inconvenience caused.

Our party is made up of four surfers. I’m the beginner. There’s Dave (whom I later learnt was Dale) and Kent, who, like Kuya Dom, are from Mindanao. Mindanao gets a bad reputation sometimes: it’s the site of a Muslim insurgency since the Philippines first constituted their independence. Dave has been here for two months. I wonder what or how he finds the income to do this. Kent is a more recent transplant. He has been in Siargao for a month. Then there’s Marc, a Swiss-German surfer who’s been surfing since 2012. I wonder too, how he finds the time and money to do this full time. He’s from some remote city in Switzerland. An hour from Zurich he says. I nod my head. That’s not too far, I think. Then there’s me, the first timer.

There was a five minute low down on the basics of surfing before we rode out. Do this, then this, and put your leg out. Okay, whatever. I try it out. He corrects some minor issues and announces that I am good to go. The other instructors smile wryly and clap. Am I? We board the boat, coxswained by a leathery skinned old man. He laughs. I say salamat for thank you. He nods. The rest slowly climb the bangka. It’s surprisingly stable, barely moving as each person steps on board.

The bangka is a traditional boat. It is similar to the Malay sampan, with the same Austronesian roots. It’s a small sloop, with two sides extending from the hull to balance and carry things. It looks like a catamaran — the kind of sailboat that glides and sometimes even flies above water — except it has is hull in the water. Width is often better than length when it comes to shipbuilding. A lengthy ship bobs up and down the waves, which makes for a dangerous ride. It could dip sharply into the surface, and flip over. An obese person floats better in the sea.

So, the bangka is a marvel. Even in choppy seas it holds its weight. The modern bangka is fitted with a motor instead of a sail. The surfboards are laid out by the sides. They don’t seem particularly concerned the boards could slip off easily. So we ride out.

The wind is epic today. Good waves. I could not catch the term — was it kaling? Or astig? Either way it was uttered with a cheeky smile and pointing to the barrels forming, the crest of the wave crashing deeply into the undersurf. The instructors are all excited. You ride up to them, paddling as best you did and do a half circle to reach. Then they grab your board and rotate it in the direction of the surf. Some Cebuano, an excited utterance — ready? Ready, ready. He grabs my board tightly, rotates it, and says go! The board lurches forward slowly and accelerates. Stand, stand now. The voice is distant. That split second I pull my right leg between my knees, shuffling my left leg forward. It’s hard to look up even though that’s what you are supposed to do. I look down and the board does the same. I slip off, covering my head.

If you did a good run, surfers say you “ate” the wave. The logical inverse: the wave ate you. It literally and metaphorically digests you. You’re very much in the stomach of the wave, thrashing about in the sea like an idiot. You see bubbles, hold your breath. Your eyes sting with the saltwater. I worry about my contact lenses. Then your head bobs up and down and you find your level. You have maybe 10-15 seconds to get your bearings before the next one comes over. In the intermission you can do two things. One, get on your board and paddle the hell out of there. Or two, position your board perpendicular to the swell, grab the tail, lever it slightly, and hold your right (or left, if you are left-handed) over the body of the board. And hope the wave doesn’t pull you under again. I surfed three times in Matanjak. Colloquially, they call it the washing machine. The reef is barely a meter from the surface, so when the waves sweep in they push upwards, creating a swell and sucking you down. And just when you spit out the seawater, you’re sucked under again, like a rag in a washing machine.

I had the unfortunate experience of being swept under twice. The second time I couldn’t breathe. I felt my asthma acting up, wheezing as my overworked lungs took in what little oxygen was left in the breath forty seconds ago. Panic does many things to your mind which in turn forces your body to do strange things. Hyperventilating is one. The wheezing wouldn’t go away, and I gulp mouthfuls of water. I’m going to drown. It sure feels like it, the corners of my eyes slowly darkening as bubbles of air form columns and the crest crashes down. But my head emerges, and I do a hand signal to my instructor. I can’t breathe! He comes over, laughs, shrugs, and says — you’ve been washed of your sins. Fuck.

If you miss the wave or get wiped out you try again. “You ok?” Kuya Dom shouts over the crashing waves. I give a thumbs up, spitting the salty seawater out my mouth. It’s gross, but bear with it. I hop on my board and paddle towards the embankment on left. It’s hard. I go the gym every alternate day. I train my biceps with curls. But this is different. You paddle long enough and the lactic acid stings each stroke. The saltwater in your mouth, in your eyes, and the acid in your muscles. I wonder if the thrill of riding the wave was worth it.

It is. I paddle towards the Kuya. He does a thumbs up and circles his index finger. Turn left and keep paddling. The cycle repeats.

Matanjak is a shithole of wave. If you can catch a few big barrels here you probably can surf the whole Siargao unaided. The washing machine cannot be underestimated. Kuya Dom personally has six stitches from a board fin going across his scalp. The last morning that I surfed Matanjak, one surfer got hit by his board and went unconscious for a while, saved only by his instructor and the boatman. But my last surf at Matanjak was the best. The instructors had been pushing me out towards the wave, effectively launching me into a good ride. But this time was different. I was on my own. Yes, they positioned the board perpendicular to the wave, but the moment they said go, I was on my own.

Paddling hard is not as easy as it seems. You have to juggle many decisions at once: the wave, your body’s position, other surfers, and any other obstacles. But it can boiled down to two essentials: balance and momentum. If you can stand up properly, your right leg going before your left, then widening your stance, that’s only half of it. Even if you have excellent balance, little or no momentum can doom your set to a lame start, sinking as soon as you stand up. This is why paddling is so important. You need it to paddle hard and fast enough to propel yourself onto the crest of the wave, then the power from the body of the wave will push the board forward.

The wave sucks you in before it spits you out. When the wave approaches the shore, it slows down, causing suction. It makes it seem like your paddling is weak or worse, non-existent. But that’s not the case — so long as you are not sinking the paddle is working. And from a first person perspective you wouldn’t know that until the Drop.

The Drop is when you stand up and launch your board. Consequently the shifting weight causes the tail to dip, but in theory your widening stance is supposed to balance it out. Here is the moment that most beginners screw up. Stand up too fast and you nosedive. Stand up too slow and you slip on your back. Either way it’s a drop because you fall into the sea. But after standing up multiple times, you sort of get the hang of things and begin to move on your own.

Other than Matanjak I surfed Duka Island and Salvacion. Duka is Cebuano for “big”. It’s pronounced with an emphasis on the ‘D’ consonant, and the K sounds more like a G than a hard K as in the English word ‘cut’. It’s a much smaller island than Siargao, but the biggest amongst the islets surrounding Siargao. The waves here can be good, but they crash hard against a rocky reef so one must be cautious not to ride too far towards shore.

How does one survive a wipeout? Don’t fight it, according to Dom. The waves will take you out. Just hold your breath, cover your head, and have an awareness of where your board is approximately. The wave will always take you out of danger, ironically. The wave breaks and pushes anything forward, so if you are in a fetal position you’ll eventually end up spread out on the other side. Never fight the wave because it will suck you back into another set.

Surfing is, for the lack of a better word, chill. There are a lot of dangers involved: you could hit your head, stumble onto a bad reef, get caught in a washing machine, or worse yet, a boat’s propeller, but surfers hang loose. There’s so much effort to make it look effortless, from the paddling to the intense focus required to read the wave. You get injured, paddle out, and start again. It’s character building.

The Coffee

The Siargao Books cafe is open 24/7. It’s an oasis in the night and morning. I wake up every morning, except Monday and Tuesday, at 4 am. Then I grab my dry bag and make my way over to the cafe for breakfast. Long black, two shots — the staff even memorized my order. It’s either a banana cheesecake or a croissant. The croissant tasted weird when I had it, but it gave me the energy I needed to surf.

Siargao in the morning is empty, except for the tuktuk drivers. They sit around, staring at the empty street, and calling out to any pedestrians to hustle a ride. It’s a maximum of 50 Philippine pisos to the end of General Luna, Cloud 9. But the unwitting tourist will take any quote. I gave 50 for a short ride on my first day. It’s not much to me, but to locals it is substantial.

I remember one Kuya Juju. If I recall correctly he was the one who drove me from the del Carmen airport to General Luna. We spoke with hand signals because his English was limited to yes and no. He drove me sometimes and gave me an honest price, especially when other tuktuk drivers gave ridiculous prices. He was an old man, with a scruffy gray beard and wrinkled eyes that sank deep into his head. He had very high but flat cheekbones, and his cheeks sank into his face, jowls hanging. He looked really robust; each wrinkle seemingly its own story. Of meeting random people, ferrying foreigners, goods (contraband or otherwise), and the tedium of being a tuktuk driver. It takes a lot of dexterity, quick thinking and fast reflexes to drive a tuktuk. He looked pretty resigned to fate. You gave him whatever fare you wanted and he just nodded and smirked. Unlike the other tuktuk drivers he was never pushy, never loud or aggressive. He just stood there and nodded.

The Cockfight

Friday morning I had gone to surf at Salvacion. I had no plans for the afternoon and so I accompanied my instructor a traditional cockfight. I rode pillion down General Luna to the cockfighting arena. It’s a small sandpit surrounded by makeshift stands. Three rows of people stood, and the atmosphere was congenial at first. The Filipinos are very communal. Friendly chatter is exchanged. I’d imagine them talking about their daily lives, the surf conditions, and maybe the cockerels they bred. In truth, it was gibberish to me. There was a ring of stalls around the sandpit, selling food (sisig) and drinks (coke, Sprite, iced lemon tea). I had the sisig with coke and lemon. It had a twangy taste, chicken liver cooked in deep black gravy. Not the best sight but it tasted nice.

The first fight begins. Two men cradle their cockerels and ceremoniously enter the sandpit. Announcements are made. Then a lull. There’s a tear in the sheet above me, through which sunlight pours in. It’s hot and humid, very uncomfortable. I wonder if my sunscreen holds up against the harsh rays.

But others have something else to think about. Bets are called. Someone shouts, and the cacophony of betting begins. If you hold your fingers horizontally across, you bet in the hundreds. If your fingers point down, you bet in the thousands. I see one, two, three, four, even five thousand dollar bets. That’s crazy, almost equivalent to a day’s worth of wages. Kuya Dom bets conservatively. First, eight hundred. “We’ll see how it goes,” he tells me, shouting over the excited cries of other spectators. It’s not called a bloodsport for no reason. Gambling and fighting, somehow, cater to the psychic angst of males.

There’s also the “sigil.” It’s a ratio bet of 70:30 odds, usually in the loser’s favor. That is, if said bettor wins, they win 70% of the stated bet. Otherwise, they give 30%. Usually, the 30% event has a higher probability of occurring. I see some sigils on the red cockerel against the blue. The cockerels are given Tagalog names, which I have since forgotten. But it’s akin to home and away in football or soccer. Then the noise dies down and a tense silence takes over.

The blade was unsheathed. “Some people have died from being cut,” Kuya Dom shakes his head. I nod in silence. Others hold their breath. The cockerels are brought next to each other, their beaks touching. They bob their head, reach out and peck. This signals the start of the fight. They are swiftly placed on the dirt, and the flutter of feathers begins.

“Oh!” the crowd gasps. “Oh! Oh!” One more time. A tint of sunlight flashes off the blade. The red one jumps into the air and sits on the blue one. I see their scrawny chicken legs thrashing about in a vortex of feathers and brown dust. The blue one struggles. Then I see the source of excitement: a deep gash in the appendix of the blue cockerel. The viscous red liquid oozes out, its feathers now moist with blood. It flutters its left wing, life draining slowly. A small pool of blood forms where the wound is opened. It bobs its head, pathetically. I wonder what it sees. Flashes of its short life? The aggression of its opponent? The shouts, cries and smiles all about it? What condemned this little creature to such a gruesome fate, bleeding out on a ground, its blood mixing with damp moist sand? Would it die? Or would it just be maimed?

“Unos! Dos! Tres!” The crowd chants. Three strikes and blue is out. But as the last syllable leaves the chant, red spasms.

And drops dead. A collective sigh follows. I am utterly confused. “The red - it cut itself.” Kuya Dom explains, gesturing to his neck. The red cockerel had jumped and the blade of the left foot sliced open its throat, killing it instantly. The Kuya loses his bet.

He made ten times his lot that day. Sure, Dom did lose some. But he bet smart, and ignored some games. He also lent a thousand pesos to his neighbor, who was margin called, so to speak. “You go higher, more to lose!” Kuya Dom smiles. “So I have enough, give back to my wife.” I realized this was a very complex betting system, something similar to the Kelly criterion and the Martingale system. It is widely used in poker and other games of chance. But here was a surfing instructor who just made a lot from an intuitive understanding of probability.

The national character of the Philippines is an almost culturally ingrained sense of vulnerability to nature, among other things. This part of the world has almost been continuously and consistently under the thumb of a colonial master for 500 years. It is a classic example of divide and rule. The archipelago is made up of thousands of islands and islets. They are each inhabited by different tribes, who although derive from a common ancestor, have diverged like the branches of a tree. They fan out with commonalities in language, culture and political structures. When the conquistadors arrived, one tribe allied itself with them and slaughtered the other tribe. Then the cycle repeated, until — with guns and steel — and the Spanish empire conquered the archipelago. It was an accident of history, the meeting between two civilizations with vastly different technologies and orientation. Up till today, almost 40% of Tagalog is Spanish, and Filipinos are conversant in English, a remnant of the lingua franca of a three decade American rule. Not so much Japanese, as the flag of the Rising Sun flew not more than three years over Manila.

Colonization brought civilization to a civil people. With overwhelming firepower, the force of violence, and the threat of extinction, the Spanish subjugated the tribes and stole their land. They instituted forms of oppression and economic slavery that continue to this day, albeit in modern form. Philippines is still a developing country, with large swaths of rural poor. It has poor conservation practices, with high rates of deforestation. Drug abuse is rampant. Typhoons continue to batter and kill people yearly. It is a nation that is still finding its footing in the world. With the rise of China, the Philippines has taken on new geopolitical significance as a bulwark of lothe Western world in Southeast Asia. While other countries had taken a revolutionary stance towards the West, the Philippines has adopted almost the opposite.

The City

I left Manila just as another typhoon slammed into the northern provinces. Roberto, the Grab driver to the airport, told me that the flooding in Manila is common.

From 30,000 feet the city pulses with light. Brightly lit roads with cars stick bumper-to-bumper in slowmoving traffic. The congestion is bad, bad enough to add close to 20-30 minutes to your journey. It’s a mental note that I take down for future visits, if ever. Manila is actually a province, made up of a number of different cities. The basic unit of government is the barangay. Famously, this term derives from the balangay, which is the root design from which the bangka originates. Academics have pointed to the meritocratic nature of life aboard a balangay as the world’s first democracy. Judging from opinionated Filipinos, I wouldn’t be surprised. Communal face-saving can sometimes be trumped by a vote.

So Manila is actually the amalgamation of multiple baragays. The most famous of these are economic powerhouses — Makati, Bonifacio Global City or BGC, and Pasig. These are the seats of economic power, where the likes of JP Morgan and the finance elite have their lunches. The avenues are wide and reminiscent of cities like New York or Madrid. Makati is especially interesting. Its streets are wide, flanked by nice tropical trees with good shade. It reminded me of the 1970s, and Bauhaus architecture is the norm in this city. Small, cozy cafes pop up along every one or two streets, offering respite from the intense afternoon sun.

If there’s anything that one needs in Manila, it is sunscreen. The midday sun is scorching hot and clouds offer little protection against the radiation. One or two hours out in the heat and your skin could be stinging. Add to that the incessant buzzing of flies, the odor of spent fuel and waste water pooled in small puddles, and you get the idea. The locals here — in the Philippines as much as Manila — have a characteristic matte tan. I too acquired one after two days.