Travel Journal

I arrived at Cebu’s airport, which is located on the Mactan island where Ferdinand Magellan introduced Christianity in the Philippines in 1521, and where he found his demise, killed by local chieftain Lapu-lapu in the Battle of Mactan.

A taxi took me over the bridge, connecting Mactan to the rest of Cebu, and we went through busy Lapu-lapu City with its many packed jeepneys. After 45 minutes, I arrived at Cebu City, where I checked into a nice budget hotel, and ventured out into the city.

The jeepneys are again the most convenient (and cheapest) way to get around town, although it is a little difficult to find out which one will get you closest to the place or street you want to go though (although everyone is very eager to help, fellow passengers erupting in a heated discussion on what is the easiest way for me reach my destination). Unlike in Manila, here in Cebu, sometimes a husband and wife operate the jeepney, with the husband driving and the wife sitting in the back, collecting the fare. My fellow passengers usually have a towel or small piece of cloth, to deal with either sweat or the pollution, as the jeepney continues its journey, stopping frequently to let passengers on or off.

Cebu City’s Colon Street is reportedly the oldest street in the Philippines, and boy, it sure shows. The buildings are dark grey, sometimes completely black from all the pollution, as the wide street is busy with traffic, many jeepneys, cars, trucks, and taxis. On the side of the road, vendors are selling fruit, watches and clothing, next to big, old-fashioned shopping malls, fast food restaurants and cinemas. In the evening, when the vendors have closed their stalls, the homeless take their place, sleeping on the concrete in front of the closed doors of the shopping malls.

The northern part of Cebu City couldn’t be more diffferent, with luxury hotels, relatively expensive bars and restaurants, and modern shopping malls. To the northeast, adjacent to slums, lies an affluent, gated area, aptly named Beverly Hills, where the rich of Cebu reside in their large villas or luxurious apartment complexes, as always with security guards present. In this part of the city, up in the hills, a Taoist temple is located, painted in white with red and green decorations, a dragon on the roof, porcelain statues of bearded men inside. In the main temple, a board provided instructions on how to get answers from God to all your questions, by throwing wooden kidney-shaped blocks on the floor. The position in which they ended up would represent a “Yes", “No", or a frustrating “Maybe". Outside, a well-kept garden, and a nice view of Cebu City in the distance, with many ships sailing to its busy port.

I met some Korean students, who were studying English for up to six months in Cebu City. Never say South Korea - there is only Korea and then that isolated country to the north, with its dictatorial regime. Explaining which country I am from is easy. “Do you know Guus Hiddink?", I ask them. Their face brightens immediately as they exclaim “Aah! Hiddinku! He’s our hero!” [ Hiddink was the Dutch football coach who led the Korean 2002 World Cup team to the best ever showing by an Asian country in the tournament’s 72-year history. He now has, for instance, a stadium named after him, the Guus Hiddink Stadium in Gwangju ] The students introduced me to Korean cuisine, pork belly (which coincidentally also is a Filipino favorite), which you cook yourself with onions and garlic on a hot plate. We had a very spicy vegetable mix called Kim Chi, and a very nice alcoholic (almost vodka-like) drink called So ju. We discussed Korean and Dutch culture, the influence of Confucianism in Korean culture, and the change in customs and values for Korea’s younger generation (with for instance, the abandonment of arranged marriages). As they had been in Cebu City for a while, they showed me around to nice places, including a lovely coffee shop called “Off Roads Coffee", where you sip your coffee on the roof, under the stars.

After a couple of days enjoying this nice city, I would continue on to another part on the island of Cebu, the small town of Moalboal, as I was looking forward to finally doing my first scuba diving in the Philippines.

I have been receiving a lot of e-mails, asking me if I am okay, as the news from the worst earthquake in recent history unfolds.

I’m on the small island of Boracay, in the Philippines, far away from the affected areas, and apart from the news, there is nothing here that would indicate that such an immense catastrophe just took place. As most of you will know by now, the epicenter was off the coast of Aceh, on the Indonesian island of Sumatra, which I visited a little over three weeks ago. I was planning to visit the areas in Thailand in a couple of weeks, that now have been badly hit, so naturally I will have to decide if I still go there. For now, I will stay here in the Philippines, and I’m planning on flying out to Bangkok, in Thailand, around 12 January 2005.

In some restaurants or cafes here on this tropical island, there are televisions with continuous coverage of the news by BBC World or CNN. A lot of tourists and locals are watching the horrible images in disbelief, unsuccesfully trying to comprehend the enormous scale of this natural disaster. The thought of the tens of thousands of people who have died is immensely saddening. Most of the affected areas are very poor, and it will take them years if not decades to recover, not to mention the difficulty of overcoming the grief of a lost one.

Jose Rizal - Mi Último Adiós (My Last Farewell)

Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.

On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,
Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom’s site,
It is the same if asked by home and Country.

I die as I see tints on the sky b’gin to show
And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your mutational glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light!

My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,
My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.

My life’s fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,
Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet ’tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, ‘neath your skies to expire,
And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity !

If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,
A simple humble flow’r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.

Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,
Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o’er my site.

Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize
And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.

Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,
For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see you own redemption.

And when the dark night wraps the cemet’ry
And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don’t disturb their repose, don’t disturb the mystery:
If you hear the sounds of cithern or psaltery,
It is I, dear Country, who, a song t’you intone.

And when my grave by all is no more remembered,
With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.

Then it doesn’t matter that you should forget me:
Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I’ll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.

My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,
Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I’ll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.

Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,
Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.

In stark contrast with Indonesia, where they hardly celebrate this Christian holiday, Manila has an abundance of Christmas decorations everywhere. At night it’s most visible, with thousands of blinking lights that can cover entire walls of buildings, huge neon Santas, and the inevitable birth of Christ scenes, including a plastic Mary and Joseph. And of course there are lots of cheezy Christmas songs playing everywhere at cafes and restaurants.

During a hot afternoon, I went for a walk through Rizal park, with its memorial for Dr. Jose Rizal. A doctor of medicine, writer and activist, he headed the non-violent protests against the Spanish occupation, until he was executed on December 30, 1896. That turned out to be the demise of the Spanish regime in the Philippines, as Rizal’s execution caused an uproar that united the whole country, and the Spanish were defeated in the following two years. Now he is the national hero of the Philippines, and Rizal’s last poem, which he wrote in the days before his execution, is on display in three languages at the memorial. Titled “Mi Último Adiós", it’s a farewell to the country he so loved. I entered the small park, part of the memorial, where larger than life statues display the very last moment in Rizal’s life. His face frozen in a look of pain and anguish, his body bent slightly backwards as if he is about to fall down, his hands bound by his sides. Behind him, the execution squad, the soldiers aiming their rifles with one eye closed, a concentrated yet malevolant look on their face. Further to the back, Rizal’s friend and attorney, in tears, and a priest, holding a bible and small cross.

Within walking distance of the park, there is the Intramuros area, the oldest part of Manila. Like most of Manila itself, this part was almost completely destroyed by Japanese and American bombs during World War II. The large walls enclosing the area have been rebuilt, and inside there’s a busy hum of activity. Lots of students going to their medical college, little cafes putting chairs and tables out on the streets, a small orchestra playing music in a garden, and officials readying their papers for a local election, voters standing in line in front of a dull, grey government building. In the north of the Intramuros area, overlooking the Pasig river and Manila Bay, Fort Santiago is situated, the former military headquarters of the Spanish, British, American and Japanese regimes. Before it too was destroyed, by American forces in 1945, it was used as a prison by the feared and hated Japanese military police, the Kempeitai, who tortured and executed hundreds of men and women. It is now a monument and park, a memorial cross marking the common grave of approximately 600 bodies of guerillas and civilians, found inside the underground cells after the war. To the west, there is a small yet interesting museum dedicated to Dr. Jose Rizal, featuring many excerpts from his prose and poetry, artifacts, paintings inspired by his life’s story, and yet more translations of his final poem.

The following day, I took the LRT to the northern part of Manila, as I intended to visit the famous Chinese cemetery. I got off, walked on the busy street until I got to a smaller, quieter area, where jeepneys were parked with their drivers enjoying a siesta on the back bench, kids playing basketball on the streets, the walls of houses covered in ivy, their small balconies decorated with lots of plants. I walked through a large gate, marking the entrance of the Chinese cemetery. The wide, ascending two lane road led me past a row of houses, almost like villas, big and elaborately decorated, in all shapes and styles of architecture, some buildings over 15 meters in height. To my astonishment, these were actually mausoleums for the deceased. They had large windows, sometimes glass doors with gates in front, and in the middle of the house, the tomb of one person, or a husband and wife, or sometimes a whole family. Behind them, the photos of the deceased and their names, in Chinese script, together with a poem or their life’s story, engraved in marble. I was a little uneasy at first, with that dreadful feeling you get at a cemetery, but my curiosity quickly took over, as I took a peak through the window of many of these houses, - mausoleums -, a lot of which had their own toilets, and sometimes a small kitchen together with tables and chairs. A number of these mausoleums were built as churches, some with big neo-classicist paintings, with coloured glass windows featuring a picture of Mary, with giant crosses on the top of the spires. Some had their own well-kept gardens with yellow flowers, a small fountain, stone benches and tables. I walked for quite a while through this enormous town-within-a-city, it reminded me of the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris, but then hundreds of times bigger and more elaborate. I followed a small alley that led me past many buildings, one more expensive than the other, and I sat down in one of the gardens for a while, writing my diary, enjoying the quiet, solemn environment, before I went in another direction. I was stunned to see that a small number of the mausoleums were occupied by the living, someone cooking lunch in the kitchen, laundry hanging to dry in the garden of one of these houses of the dead, kids playing in front. I suppose that when your house is built from cardboard, these houses must be extremely luxurious, although living among the dead surely must take some getting used to.

I took the LRT back into the center of town, and had some dinner at a foodcourt of one of the big, air-conditioned shopping malls. While enjoying my Tagalog food, I thought about the following day, with a flight on my itinerary that would lead me down south, to the island of Cebu.

Unfortunately, the usually very customer-friendly Singapore Airlines company had made a mistake with my original request, in Indonesia, to postpone my flight to the Philippines. So, as I arrived at Singapore’s luxurious airport, I was told a dreaded message that no airline traveller ever wants to hear: “Sorry, Sir, your name is not in the system". After being directed from one service counter to another, and after being waitlisted on the flight I had originally booked (and subsequently being told there was no seat for me), I was finally put on a later flight, that would arrive in Manila in the evening.

So I had several hours to kill at Singapore’s airport, not the worst place to get stranded for a while, and after many coffees, newspapers, magazines and some time at the free Internet consoles in the departure lounge, I got on my flight, which took a little over three hours to reach the Philippines.

At Manila’s Ninoy Aquino International Airport, I was personally greated by Mrs. Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, the President of the Philippines, albeit on a poster, and I suspect in a paintbrushed version.

After spending the night in a dingy hotel room, being kept awake by the loud music from karaoke bars in the street (I would later change hotels), I ventured out into the big city on a bright, sunny morning. Somehow, I had expected the people of the Philippines to have more Spanish features, but most are of Malay descent, with some Chinese, and only a small number of people sporting the typical Spanish facial features. Some were quite clearly the result of a mixed Filipina-Western marriage, usually their long nose or white skin giving it away. Their main language, Tagalog, has the same mixture of influences, with words derived from Sanskrit, Spanish, English and Malaysian/Indonesian.

Even though this country was ruled by the Spanish for many centuries, there is surprisingly little of that influence left, except for the enormous Catholic churches, the little courtyards you find in the quieter parts of the city, and the food (meat, meat, meat and seafood). The Asian influences are more apparent, with small foodstalls everywhere in the city, but a lot of them are serving barbeque meals, with skewers of meat or seafood.

Most visible are the American influences. Everywhere, you’ll find the American stores, cafes or restaurants like 7-Eleven, Starbucks, Wendy’s, McDonalds and Dunkin’ Donuts, and probably because of those, there are more obese people here than I’ve ever seen before in an Asian country. The “No Guns Allowed” signs at the entrance of many cafes and restaurants took a little getting used to (they need signs for that?), and at almost every place, your bags are searched and the guard usually has a quick feel around your belt to find out if there are any hidden guns. The banks have three or four guards at the entrance, carrying the biggest pump-shotguns I’ve ever seen, and the black and white police cars have “To Protect And To Serve - Manila’s Finest” printed in big letters on the side. The apparent gun-culture is a little intimidating at first, but so far I haven’t felt unsafe or uneasy (although I must admit I’m being more careful here than in, for instance, Indonesia), and the people seem to have the same Asian friendliness and hospitality.

I took the LRT, or above ground metro, to the south of the city. It has a seperate platform section and metro carriage for women, something I also have never seen in Asian countries before (although according to a recent poll, 64% of Japanese women said they had been groped on Tokyo’s metro. A big change in this country with its strict social etiquette, where once yelling “seku hara!” (from “sexual harassment") was enough for all men in the same carriage to raise their hands in a “I didn’t do it!” gesture). The short and cheap ride on the LRT brought me further south, where I got off at Vito Cruz station, went for a short walk, and then took a typical Philippines way of transportation - the jeepney.

The jeepneys are great, a little like the Indonesian angkots, although they look much different. Remnants from World War II, they were originally converted jeeps from the American army, but are now usually custom built, long aluminium cars, painted in the brightest of colours, with two rows of benches in the back and their destinations written on the side. They usually have slogans on the front or the back, like “Mother of Perpetual Help", “Jesus the Saviour", or a simple “God Bless Our Ride". I paid my fare, about 5 cents, and off the jeepney went, criscrossing through the busy traffic, accellerating and then stopping so quickly that you had to hang on to the handrail suspended from the ceiling, if you wanted to stay seated in the same place. As I approached my destination, I was warned by my fellow passengers, and I told the driver “Para!", which means “Stop!” in Tagalog, and I got off.

I was now near the Makati Central Business District, the most modern (and probably most expensive) part of Manila. My first place of visit was the building where the Dutch embassy was located on the ninth floor. Pictures of flowers (of course) and earmarked black-and-white cows (typically Dutch?) on the wall, but also here, something I had seen in my hotel and in many cafes and restaurants, big emergency lamps, in case of the apparently not so rare power outages. This was my first visit to any Dutch embassy, and I wanted to get some travel advice, as there are some areas that I’d better avoid due to the risk of terrorist attacks and kidnappings (this turned out to be North Luzon, north of Manila, and Mindanao in the south), and other areas in this large country that were severely affected by the recent storms and subsequent floodings (rest of Luzon and Quezon provinces). I thanked the consular officer, left the building, and felt truly ready to start exploring The Philippines.

On Sumatra, the small town of Padang and its surrounding region is home of the Minangkabau people, an ethnic group of muslims in which the mother is head of the family. Their culture is easily recognisable, not just by their brightly coloured traditional clothing, but by the pointed roofs of many houses, resembling the horns of a buffalo.

After arriving, I headed up to the nice little town of Bukittinggi, two hours north-east of Padang, up in the hills and therefor pleasantly cool. Traffic is slow-paced, many houses have the huge peaked Minangkabau roofs, and just about everything is within walking distance. It features a traditional Dutch bell tower, completely intact except for the peaked roof that was installed a couple of decades ago. To the southwest, the town is flanked by a deep canyon, providing a gorgeous view of green hills and ricefields next to small farms, deep down.

As my remaining time in Indonesia was short, I decided to stay the days I had left in Bukittinggi, to explore the town and its surroundings, and then head back to Padang, where I would take a flight to Singapore. Visiting other parts of Sumatra would involve very long bus rides, as this is a huge island, and most parts are only accessible by bus (there is no rail network to speak of).

The Merdeka guesthouse I stayed at was housed in a traditional Dutch villa, with high ceilings and long corridors, and it was with the friendly staff that I arranged a rental motorbike. I drove on winding roads with 180 degree turns, towards the enormous Maninjau crater lake, underway stopping frequently to look at the beautiful scenery. Small villages in lush valleys usually had one or more mosques, with brightly coloured roofs, adjacent to green patches of ricefields lined by palm trees. Thick forests would surround the villages, the typical leaves of banana trees were the most visible from the distance.

I went over several peaks of hills before I got to the highest one, enclosing Lake Maninjau, and I gazed in awe at the gorgeous view of the deep blue lake, in stark contrast with the green hills and mountains surrounding it. The road that led down to the lake provided even more stunning views, and in the unlikely case I got tired of looking at this beautiful display, there were the monkeys again, dozens by the side of the road. I spent some time driving around the lake, taking in the scenery, having lunch at a waterside restaurant, before I headed back.

Back in Bukittinggi, more news reached me of the devastating floods in the Philippines, which worried me as this would be my next destination. On my last evening in this lovely town, I spent quite some time in an Internet cafe with the slowest connection imaginable, to check for travel advisory and weather forecasts for the Philippines.

Sumatra was a fitting end for my travels through Indonesia, and although I didn’t get to spend a lot of time in this beautiful province, I thoroughly enjoyed its natural beauty and the very friendly people. But after nearly two months in Indonesia, it was time to move on. This nation is still struggling with its relatively new democracy, violent uprisings and their ruthless supression in parts of its vast territory, enormous corruption that is crippling the already sour economy, and the influence of the military in politics. Only a couple of months ago, Munir, one of Indonesia’s most prominent human rights activists, died of arsenic poisoning on board a flight to The Netherlands, with many suspecting the Indonesian military’s hand in his death. Fortunately, there are many Indonesians who try to turn this country around.

Despite all the negative issues, it is quite easy to fall in love with this beautiful country, its intruiging culture and its very friendly and charming people, not to mention the food which makes your mouth water just thinking about it (except curried cow brains or satay of cow’s tongue - no, I will not get used to that).

I was quite sad to leave Indonesia, and I quietly said goodbye as I boarded my Garuda Indonesia flight to Singapore, where I would, after a bit of trouble, continue my journey to the Philippines.

Jakarta is indeed an enormous capital, population now over 20 million, with a constant layer of brown smog hovering over the city. Like Surabaya, it is clearly not designed for walking (Yogyakarta being a wonderful exception to this rule), so I took many buses and angkots, and used the efficient Transjakarta express bus system, to get around town.

I explored the Pelebuhan Sunda Kelapa, the old port to the north, and went for a walk through the tiny alleys in a small village of houses built on stilts, some no more than pieces of cartboard put together. Just about everyone greeted me and wanted to know where I was from. Small wooden bridges led me over the heavily polluted, oily water, kids swimming in between the floating rubbish, small boats bringing people to other parts of the harbour. Dark clouds were already releasing rain in the distance, a far away rumble of thunder sounded, and winds were picking up force as I talked to some kids, looking out over a polluted harbour with many enormous Macassar schooners and small boats navigating in between. On my way back into town, I stopped for shelter and a hot cup of coffee at a small warung, and watched the rains wash the dust off the streets. After the downpour had ended, I went for a walk again, admiring the many old Dutch warehouses, some with the logo of the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie on it, the old Dutch trading company that flourished during Dutch rule of the former East Indies. I walked past a typical Dutch hanging bridge, such an unusual sight in this Asian capital. Some of the older people I talked to spoke a lot of Dutch, some had family living in towns or villages in Holland, and many reminded me of the Dutch occupation of Indonesia, always with a smile or a laugh. In retrospect, I am amazed and quite ashamed that I have never received any education at school about this dark period in Holland’s history, which went on until the late fourties of the previous century, almost as if this taboo subject is to be forgotten as soon as possible. Only now, here in Indonesia, I’m learning about our influence and our unfathomable naivety, once claiming this land as our own, partly out of commercial gain, partly out of the wish to ‘help’ and ‘educate’ the Indonesian people, no matter how honest those intentions may have been. However, a lot of Indonesians have told me that they believe that their country wouldn’t be nearly as developed as it is now, without the Dutch influence.

They love abbreviating words here. The everpresent Wartel stands for Warung Telekom, or Telecom Shop. A Warung Internet has the more ominous sounding name of Warnet. And one day, I went to the Monas, or Monumen Nasional, the enormous, socialist-style tower in the middle of Jakarta, with a big bronze flame on top. Locals with a sense of humour refer to it as “Sukarno’s Last Erection", and the top deck provides a grand yet very smoggy view of the city. In the big, dark, airconditioned room at the base of the tower, there was a relief map of Indonesia, in its original state, before the separation of some of its territory.

I explored some of Jakarta’s enormous shopping malls, walked on the huge boulevards with 6 lanes of traffic, gazed at the many skyscrapers in the central business district, and explored some of the nicer, greener areas with old Dutch mansions, where the constant noise of traffic would die down to a distant hum, and people ate at little foodstalls. When it was raining, and this was actually quite often, sometimes for only one hour, sometimes the entire evening, I would sip coffee at a small warung or cafe, or retreat to my air-conditioned hotelroom to watch some television.

The humidity, heat and pollution of the city is quite exhausting, so I was eager to leave Jakarta, which I did on the first day of December, by flying to Padang on the enormous island of Sumatra.