Heading South

There’s something perversely attractive about heading south as everyone else goes north.  Maybe it’s the spirit of rebellion, which needs the occasional outing in all of us. My insurrection is very simple - I visited Northern France and detested it!

In my early twenties I’d cycled through France for a month or so and had a wonderful experience. Yet, returning to France thirty–odd years later, I thought it hideous… Haute cuisine, croissants with coffee, manicured foliage, charming chateaus – you can keep the lot! Yet, before we left Australia everyone had raved to me, about their wonderful time in France - the people, the food, the lifestyle – so what was I doing wrong?

While in North-western France we visited the Somme where my grandfather, a Private in the A.I.F., was wounded and where so many young Australians lie buried. We went to the villages of Villers-Bretonneux and Le Hamel (Papa Hooper named the family house in Pemberton Street Parramatta - Hamel). It's significance to him may be attributed to a story he once related of waiting at a field-dressing station nursing a wound, when another soldier arrived to whom he surrendered his place, as the man had suffered a nasty injury. Moments later the field-station took a direct hit, killing everyone inside. Perhaps, as one friend quipped, the Aussies should have stayed at home and let the Germans take over – would have served them right - having to live with the French.

Certainly the countryside is very picturesque with its abundant pastures delineated by stands of trees, wooded hillsides, ancient stone cottages with bucolic hayricks, sheds and assorted machinery artistically arranged to resemble a nineteenth century oil-painting. The quaintly narrow, cobbled streets of a French town with its daily rituals in each café/tabac, pâtisserie/boulangerie, charcuterie and marché where the people greet, or pause to conduct a polite conversation before business.

But wait, a stranger has arrived in town, a nemesis beyond imagining. Oui – a person who has improper French! They strangle the delicate vowels, abuse their consonants with jack-booted abandon and even truncate their sentences like some disgusting linguistic dwarf! Sacre bleu! It seemed that every time Heather or I attempted to converse in the native tongue we encountered a curt and lipless response (as per ‘we are not amused’). I even thought to surreptitiously check the underside of my shoes for canine excreta – such was the detached and aloof manner of the proprietors. Certainment – it was very easy to step on dog droppings – as French streets are littered with woofer’s eggs.

Thinking back to my cycling days, I didn’t have cause to speak to people that much and when I did I requested a limited range of foodstuffs and the occasional direction for which my French quickly became quite passable. Quite possibly I also put any upturned noses down to my sweaty demeanor – having exercised on the bicycle all morning and most likely slept in my clothes from the day before... But this was different – it was like encountering racism. That’s when some social habits of the French began to really annoy me.

Habits like: Witnessing their dog depositing a steaming barker’s nest on the footpath then sauntering off. Jumping out of a car left blocking a pedestrian crossing and traffic with an arrogant shrug and the comment – ‘time for my coffee’. Rarely indicating a turning intention in traffic – (‘And why should I – after all I know where I’m going!’). Speaking very swiftly in French using complex sentence structure, rather than using more carefully chosen words as one might when speaking to a child or an international visitor… Oh yes, and the bored ‘when you leave I’ll get back to my life look’ that many have raised to the level of an art-form.

Mind you – some of our conversations of necessity went beyond the everyday (like having to explain that my Australian USB stick needed a sim-card for mobile internet access). The crunch came for me when we arrived in Bayeaux – you know the famous town with the tapestry (actually its an embroidery). Having discovered that the sim I’d been sold wasn’t working – I went to an outlet of the ISP (Internet Service Provider) – Orange. Their technical expert divined that the sim was incompatible with my Australian device.

An English-speaking staff member was summoned to explain the problem. “That’s a shame,” I responded, “but as it hasn’t been used – I’d like my refund please”. I was informed that I’d need to return to the store I’d purchased it from 100 kilometres away. “But mademoiselle, I have the receipt from your company.” At this point the woman made the mistake of flashing her colleague what I took to be a conspiratorial smile as she repeated her no refund mantra. My blood was up - “Please explain what you think is so funny?” The smile disappeared, but so too did my 24 euros.

I might add at this point that we’d had a fairly major family melt-down about an hour earlier – the sort where you’re ready to toss in the towel and head back to the UK or even Australia, just to get shot of France…

Retiring to a small campsite outside the town we hunkered down to lick our wounds and reassess. An expensive operation this coming from Australia business, only to throw it over to return with our tail between our legs, but I was really feeling burnt out. Fortunately an early morning Skype (free wifi at the campsite) with friends and family revived our spirit of adventure, though not our affection for things French and we resolved to go south to Spain or Italy – in fact anywhere outside France.

That’s how we got beyond the middle of France before the exhaust blew off the header outside Poitiers. Maybe the mobile tissue-box (as the Hymer is affectionately known) had had a gut-full too – who knows. An hour later I was still under the vehicle, shaking violently due to the cold, wearing a plastic garbage bag to ward off the grease and cursing the tools, nuts, u-bolts and all things mechanical. Desperate, I decided to take a converse approach - I commended the tools, encouraged the nuts and U-bolts to do their best and lo and behold the broken exhaust went back together easier - I was calmer - God was nearer (did I mention I'd decided to can the Christian walk as a waste of time the day before??). I fired it up again and off we went until – clang - the exhaust pipe hit the deck completely this time. I wired it onto the sub-frame and five minutes later we were back on the road (sounding like a fleet of outlaw Harleys).

We stayed overnight in a car park and located a mechanic the next day with the help of - wait for it - a friendly, English speaking, French camping-car driver. The Lord had responded I realized. We eventually found another friendly English speaking, Frenchman - a Fiat dealer- who showed us our broken header pipe, saying he would order a replacement part while offering for us to camp overnight in his car-yard.

Later that afternoon he informed us that the part wouldn’t be available until the following week before suggesting to have the damaged part welded and replaced the next day (Friday). Two-hundred and seventy-five euros later we were back in business. For disconnecting the header-pipe, time and the type of weld (inner and outer tubes), as well as accommodation, I thought that the Fiat dealer had done us a good service - we thanked them profusely. Thank you Jesus – thank you Lord!

Continuing our flight south, we decided to stop in to Montignac, in the vicinity of the Lascaux caves. By now Heather was too intimidated to enter a French restaurant to order a meal, but I insisted we try. Shock/horror – the menu was available in translation and the waitress was friendly and helpful! We dined heartily on crepes with salad before some cycling during a break between downpours. Several days later we arrived at a farm-stay in the Dordogne region, where we were once again, greeted by friendly faces. Although it rained non-stop, the kindness of our hosts was memorable. 

Then it occurred to me –this is the other France –the France of the South, of farmers and of a less rigorously formal society. And so it continued – moving south to seek the sun and to exit France we actually found the France we’d come looking for. In Carcassone and Villefranche du Périgord friendly smiles, curiousity about Australia and positive experiences, all of which will bring us back again – to the South.

Commending the owner of a boulangerie on her excellent English in Carcassone, I asked how she’d come to learn it so well. “At school we all study English,” she shrugged.

Must be only in Southern France, I reflected, that the schools teach English and good manners.

                                                 Paull at the border...Northern France. Want to go back in mate?

                                                                    Heather couldn't bear the bad manners...

                               Best equipped rider and passenger for motorcycle tour of Northern France circa 1916.

                                                   Friendly Southern France - Villefranche du Périgord.

New Corella to Mambing and the Pogi PCI

On our first visit to New Corella in 2006, we were instructed not to leave the vehicle (our social worker minders were worried that the NPA might descend and whisk us off into the jungle). In fairness, not many tourists visit the area and their supervisor, Mr Sye, had instructed them to keep us safe – like their jobs might depend on it. Commonsense soon prevailed and we were permitted out, but only to stretch our legs with the proviso that we not move past the corner of the community welfare building.

Two years later we were back to meet members of Netty’s family at an inland resort near New Corella, which boasted natural springs and freshly cooked Filipino food. We were again escorted by the staff of RSCC Davao and were soon reminded of the easy company and relaxed efficiency of Filipinos. At the behest of Mr Sye, we were being escorted by two social workers, one of whom - named Dodong - had direct experience of managing community improvement projects in the district.

Whilst driving along Dodong received a text on his mobile. Shortly after his texting a response, a second text arrived. He’d told us that Netty’s folks be coming down from the mountains on a motorcycle. “Netty’s grandmother, and several aunties will be there, and an uncle and a cousin,” he reported.  And after the second text, “The mayor and the village chief will also be there, but the Barangay Captain will be slightly delayed.” By this time I was getting used to the Filipino past time of joking around. I’d already seen three people on a motorcycle, but six or seven people beggared belief. As for the parade of dignatories, yes well I wasn’t that gullible. “Yeah, I suppose the Mayor couldn’t make it,” I retorted.

Fortunately my sarcasm was lost to the roar of the van’s motor as we careered down the road. Ten minutes later we pulled into the grounds of the inland resort. Netty was swamped with enthusiastic attention and drawn to the bosom of her relatives. Lola Patacia, three  aunties, Tito Erno and a cousin Jeremy. A handsome and friendly man stepped forward after the preliminary greetings with the family, to introduce himself as the village chief (Datu Mencio Balong). The Datu spoke earnestly about the needs of the Mangguangan people of Purok 7 and I was very impressed by his compassionate stewardship of the village.

The Barangay Captain, Alex Paña, arrived some time later, dinking on the back of an official vehicle. He was extremely helpful and offered to assist us to reach the village on our next visit. Meanwhile we’d all feasted on soup, grilled fish, rice and fruit. Not to waste good leftovers, the relatives bundled even the soup into bags and re-mounted their motorcycle (hubel-hubel) for the journey home. See attached the photo of eight people on a motorcycle (including the driver of course – Jeremy is seated behind her father ). It was a 155cc single cylinder Honda TMX I think, before the addition of extensions.

True to his word, Alex Paña proved extremely helpful when we returned with our friends, Cath and Filbert eighteen months later. Filbert had scouted ahead and had even taken the trouble of hiring a hubel-hubel to visit Mambing a day in advance in order to ascertain whether it would be safe for us to travel there. Alex offered to drive us to Mambing in an official vehicle – although we cracked an axle on the return trip. We decided to buy supplies, (including medical supplies - in order that Cath might run a clinic) in preparation for the next day. Alex’s driver couldn’t make it, as the van was still being repaired, so up we all went to Mambing our first hubel-hubel, although Alex did arrange for ten soldiers to attend the village during our stay, “Just a precaution – standard procedure when westerners visit the area,” we were told.                        

Again, there was that rapturous moment of stepping out into Purok 7 Mambing and Netty being swept up into the arms of her family – always very emotional – with Heather and I blubbering ridiculously and too distracted to take a photo of the event. Cath did the honours for us, while Filbert proved invaluable with his easy-going manner and congeniality -  readily engaging with members of the community. He was thrown into the role of translator, doctor’s assistant (during the clinic hours which Cath ran over the next two days) and adoptee detective, as he sought out snippets of information about Netty’s birth parents, relatives and the circumstances leading up to her relinquishment and subsequent placement in an orphanage in nearby Tagum.

On the second day of our stay, we were all accompanied by Datu Mencio, Erno, Jeremy, and a small kitten (with the ten soldiers of course) to the gravesite of Marina Pasi. She’d been living in a bahay kubo belonging to Mencio and Ellen. Marina had experienced a complication during Netty’s birth with Tita Merenci in attendance. Unfortunately she died in the early hours. It seems Netty had been lucky to survive. In accordance with Mangguangan custom, the bahay had later been burned. Marina had been laid to rest next to the grave of her father on a nearby hillside overlooking the banana plantation.

Before we mounted the hubel-hubels for our return to Tagum, we were invited to return to the village on our next visit to the Philippines. Thus setting the scene for our most recent sojourn. On this occasion we made our own arrangements, which is to say that we telegraphed our intention via letter to visit Mambing during the months leading up to our return. I even attempted to contact the army division, which was active in the area, explaining the timing and purpose of our visit - in order to ensure our security. As it happened none of our correspondences arrived, so we turned up completely unannounced.  

Travelling by bus from Davao, we’d passed through Tagum, scanning the hotels visible from the road, looking for appropriate lodgings for the night. There we boarded a jeepney for the twenty odd kilometre ride into New Corella, before taking a tricycle to the municipal building to announce our arrival and to inform the authorities of our intention.

We received a most hospitable welcome from the staff. Municipal Administrator Virgilio Getizo assisted us with travel advice, gave assurances that our visit would be a happy one and provided a staff member to convey us to the PNP (Philippine National Police) office. Nimfa Alcoran provided further assistance and some welcome refreshments for our girls.

Pulis Chief Inspector (PCI) Alvin P. Saguban then met with us to discuss our safe arrival in Mambing.

The uniforms of the Pulis are superbly tailored. Navy blue trousers topped by a tooled, black leather belt secured by a dual-clasped silver buckle, suggestive of eagle’s talons. The belt would drive any 8 year-old boy wild – a weighty hand gun, ammunition clip, handcuffs, cosh and so on. The slate blue, pin-striped uniform shirts are tailored and bedecked with golden or silver insignia. Decorative, embroided symbols of the PNP adorned each arm. Epaulettes sheaved with Prussian blue, display badges of rank, while a braided shoulder trim in vivid red completes the ensemble.

Perhaps you know the look that movie actors and highly paid models exhibit when caught unawares by a regular person (“Oh isn’t that…”). They tend to look pale and bland compared to the highly polished movie product, primped, pampered, and worshipped. One might suggest that they look guilty as though undeserving of the attention lavished upon them - which of course they are. The by-product of a happy coincidence of attractive bone structure, good dentistry and a PR machine in overdrive. But what if this coincidence was quietly delivered to the doorstep of an unsuspecting person (minus the PR machine of course) – would it become a curse like the perpetual attention paid to movie actors and royalty, or simply a state of grace, which is cheerfully shared, bringing forth a radiant spirit and a warm heart? In the case of our guest, this is precisely what had occurred.

PCI Saguban is the most handsome man I’ve ever met. He was casually dressed, which is to say that his highly-polished patent leather shoes and uniform trousers were only topped by a well-fitted white t-shirt. It was easy to see from his physique that he kept himself very fit. We discussed the purpose of our visit and our security whilst in the mountains. He was able to reassure us concerning our personal safety, whilst another member of his staff advised us of comfortable lodgings for the evening, at the Inland Resort. Apologising for his state of undress, the PCI retired to the Pulis station to retrieve his uniform shirt and a police cap before he attended to our safe arrival at the resort, “It’s policy that we be in full dress uniform whilst escorting visitors” he advised. Using a satellite phone he offered to put us in contact with our friend, Datu Mencio Balong of Mambing (whom he’d recently met whilst investigating a recent murder outside the Datu’s house).

On Saturday, we were driven to Mambing by PCI Saguban and seven members of his staff. Having swum and sung karaoke during the morning, we were collected in the police van, to be taken shopping in the local market. Whilst Heather ordered supplies for a village feast, the PCI chatted amiably with the stallholders, suggested practical measures for Heather’s ordering (“Get two smaller containers, because the villagers will re-use the containers as drinking vessels.”) and sampled the delicious fruit, commending the locals on their excellent produce. Having loaded the shopping into the van we headed off to collect the rest of the officers who’d by now finished their birthday party and were ready for more police-work. They were happily lounging in the shade of a large tree. Again however, their smart uniforms and heavy weaponry betrayed the seriousness of their office. Loading rifles, and the leftovers of a substantial feast into the back of the van, we were soon back on the road.

It seems that we took the long road (via Nabuturan), in order to display a police presence in the area. The PCI was not about to waste an opportunity for positive community policing. In fact he was in his element - singing along to visayan songs, translating for us one concerning the natural environment, with his fatigue cloth wrapped about his head. It seems that our host was a university graduate in science. Certainly he was very adept at identifying species of trees, their fruiting habits and the myriad uses of their timber. He also described the conditions of local farmers, cultivation methods and the history of the region pertaining to Spanish colonisation and its aftermath.

As we left the bitumen and began climbing into the mountains the gravel roads narrowed and deteriorated until we were grinding along muddy forest tracks, the PCI was clearly enjoying the adventure of negotiating the ‘roads’. “You know you’re in New Corella when the roads become ugly!” he said as we approached a particularly muddy and seemingly impassable section of track. The outside wheels were centimetres from a sheer drop where a recent subsidence has caused part of the surface to plummet into the jungle below…. 

“Left, left that’s it now there, through there (bump) ooooh! – Any Which Way But Loose.” (the PCI had just quoted another famous movie title). Many quips were made in this fashion with well-known song titles peppering his speech (such as ‘Love is the Answer’ and ‘The World is not Enough’ for me to name but a few).   

We emerged from a particularly slippery and lumpy passage, rounded a curve and emerged into a small village where we stopped. The van disgorged full-dress policemen and crumpled tourists on the unsuspecting locals. Several officers carried the leftovers from their earlier party feast to the local Community Health Centre and prepared an impromptu banquet for the PCI and ourselves. There we met the new Barangay Captain, Jerry Abonero, who chipped in with litre bottles of Pepsi and Sprite, which had Mhiki’s eyes popping out of her head. While we were invited to dine, contact was made with our host, Datu Mencio Balong. By the time we were washing hands after a satisfying feast the Datu had arrived. It was also advised that the road beyond the village was impassable to 4 wheel-drives. Jerry managed to whistle-up a hubel-hubel and a skylab in order for us to reach Mambing. Black clouds were rolling in even as the luggage was being lashed to the frame of the skylab…

Three days later we were back in New Corella and again in the company of the PCI. We commented on the rigors of his job (posted on the bulletin board was information from a ‘credible source’ that there’d be an NPA attack in which the guerrillas would be heavily armed and dressed as policemen). “When we are alert we are relaxing and when we are relaxing we are alert,” he said, rolling his r’s playfully. He continued to joke with Datu and his staff. At that moment there were several loud bangs beyond the compound. He was instantly all attention. The moment passed, “When you are relaxing you are alert,” I commented. “So, how do you know you’re in New Corella?” he quizzed. “When the roads get ugly.” He delivered one of his most disarming and dentally perfect smiles.  I’d passed the test.

I suggested that if I were to publish a poster of the PCI in his uniform, armed with this dazzling smile I could guarantee a boost for the local tourism industry as the area would be swarming with Australian women wanting to meet the ‘Pogi PCI’ (as it happens he has a wife and a daughter soon to be graduating from kindergarten back in Zamboanga).  

“Bob Marley says No Woman No Cry,” he smiled.