Jonah and the Tissue Box

I remember as a child, hearing the tale of Jonah and the Whale, marveling at what a remarkable story of survival it seemed to relate. Swallowed by a whale…three whole days in the belly of the beast…spewed-up onto a beach and living to tell the tale…wow! Little did I realize that the day would come when, I would be (metaphorically speaking) swallowed by a whale named Herman and live to tell the tale…

It all began about fifty years ago, during my childhood…about five years ago when I initially planned the current excursion to Europe…and then again about six weeks ago, feeling miserable and meaningless in a French campsite, wondering what on earth we’d gotten ourselves into. Where to begin? Naturally I’ll start in the middle, get to the end and go back to the beginning like all modern storytellers….

Five years ago the idea of signing-up to the Dept. of Education’s Deferred Salary Scheme sounded hugely attractive. In fact it’s been one of the best decisions of my life. The Department holds back 20% of one’s wage for four years, paying you out the accrued 80% wage during the fifth year - not to come to work. Certainly the light at the end of the tunnel helped my flagging motivation whenever the going became tough. With a year left to serve, I decided to drop out of teaching for a variety of reasons I won’t bore myself with here, but continued to pay into the Scheme until July 2011.

Many things happen in that final year (2011). I became a born-again Christian (the whole works – baptized in the river, joined bible-study and fronting up at church), became a casual teacher, took over my mother’s care (packing up her house and moving her into our home), had some long-distance motorcycle/camping journeys and undertook some long-awaited home maintenance projects. 2012 however always remained the year when the family was going to put everything else aside and trundle off to the Philippines for two months and then to Europe for a further eight months.

As the anticipated departure date inevitably loomed larger, the doubts began – “After all I’m only working part-time now, isn’t it a waste of money…it’s a very long trip…disrupting the girls’ schooling…what’s the point?” Eventually, after my mum was rehoused under the divided care of my two brothers in Tasmania and a young couple had agreed to rent the house and care for our cat, Merv, we were ready (notice I’ve skipped the months of research, re-organisation, careful planning and booking).

Was it all going to be an exercise in vacuous self-indulgence, like the extended remix of yet another singing mannequin’s latest hit? As each friend was quizzed about the merits of the undertaking and whether it represented a scandalous waste of resources – the response remained the same. “Go forth – if it all goes pear-shaped – come back. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. The girls will never forget it.” Still apprehensive about the potential folly of it all, we departed.

The value and timing of the Philippines leg of the journey was never at issue. The litmus test was always going to be the European leg and more specifically, living and traveling in a campervan. Despite a hiccup involving the forces of darkness (our bank), purchase of the van went remarkably smoothly. Within a week of our arrival in the Olde Dart, we were trundling down the road in Herman the German, a 1993 Hymer camper conversion on a Fiat Ducato light-truck body. Yet two weeks later, Herman had been dubbed ‘The Mobile Tissue Box’ and there were beaucoup tears before bedtime. So where did it go so horribly wrong? Perhaps we should consider the setting...

Imagine your house is being seriously renovated. Temporarily, each member of the family must restrict themselves to whatever will fit into a small cupboard drawer, before the whole family moves into the storage pantry next to the laundry (sorry kids, no TV). The second-toilet off the laundry is available, but must double as a shower and airing cupboard. A kitchen sink and stove-top cooker are shoehorned in along with a table, which conveniently converts into a double bed, two bench seats for added comfort and bunks. Oh, did I mention that the yard has been dug-up? So visiting friends/family, in fact any contact with your normal life is off limits for the time being. The mobile-phone rings – the good news is that you’re going to end up with a great house, the bad news is that the builder fell off the roof of his last renovation and the temporary arrangement will have to last for six months.

A friend from the Philippines had a different perspective. “Yeah - that describes our whole house growing up! You got to know each other pretty well and you just had to learn to live with it…” In fact, for we citizens of Minority World, such conditions beggar belief. While for the vast bulk of the earth’s human inhabitants (Majority World – aka Third World) it represents situation normal. At this point I consider changing the blog’s title to ‘Rich Kid has Hissy-fit over Tissue Box’, but reflect that I’ll be cast in a very poor light indeed… I digress.  

So, apart from the obvious discomforts to the average westerner afforded by our circumstances, I should mention the daily teaching regime (the eldest has been diagnosed with measles, followed by chicken-pox and headlice so you can’ t get the kids to school until September sometime. The teacher has kindly dropped off enough work for the next two to three months. Naturally the children are grizzling about missing their friends, but no-one’s allowed out of the house. Welcome to the belly of the whale!

Who needs to pay exorbitant rates for a shrink? All manner of deep-seated psychological issues are soon bubbling to the surface adding a new ingredient to the mix. Naturally we don’t book tantrum appointments, so the day comes when two members of the family experience a simultaneous, Fukushima style melt-down. The tissue-box has become a whale and three hours later the erstwhile head of the family is vomited onto an unsuspecting Frenchman.

Back to the beginning of the story and mention of the biblical prophet Jonah:

‘God says to Jonah – “Get up and go to the great city of Nineveh. Announce my judgement against it because I’ve seen how wicked its people are”.

But Jonah got up and went in the opposite direction…by sailing to Tarshish.’ (Wouldn’t you? The population of Nineveh – a city so large that it took three days to see it all - was a heaving 120,000 souls, fond of debauchery and violence). I’m reminded of Bob Dylan’s opening lines to Highway 61 Revisited:

‘God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son.”

Abe said, “Man you must be puttin’ me on.”

But God doesn’t give up on Jonah. Instead he sends a tempest. The terrified crew throw their cargo overboard, before they discover Jonah’s starring role in their imminent demise. Jonah asks to be thrown overboard, whereupon the storm ceases, the crew are converted on the spot and God arranges for him to be swallow by a great fish. It’s there, in the belly of the whale, that Jonah decides to repent, and follow God’s will. Jonah cracked after only three days, whereas we romped ahead at three weeks, (then again we could see out the windows and although the sink lets out some funny smells at times whilst driving, Herman wasn’t half-full of rotting krill).

So God orders the great fish to spit Jonah out onto a beach and he trudges off to Nineveh to deliver the original message. Imagine his surprise when the Ninevites immediately adorn sackcloth and ashes and repent – Jonah’s reputation as a prophet goes on the line because God then reconsiders his wrath. Hugely miffed, Jonah sulks on a hillside still hoping to watch the fireworks. Concerned for his comfort, God arranges for a leafy plant to grow beside Jonah to ease his discomfort, but soon after commissions a worm to demolish the plant and a scorching wind to boot. The story ends with Jonah throwing another hissy-fit and wanting to die...

“Maaaate, I know just where you’re coming from…” thinks Paull.

Although Fukushima wasn’t a planned destination, it was certainly on the cards that living in such close quarters (for folk not used to such privations) was going to press a few buttons – particularly as we’d already been on the road for over two months, before we met Herman. Don’t get me wrong – traveling in a mobilehome is luxury camping – but it requires Heather and I to be; teacher, parent and friend for our girls all rolled into one, as well as love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. I’m afraid that my scorecard nudges ground level on a regular basis, causing me to feel like a creep, a rotten dad, a fake Christian or more commonly all three in succession. Heather manages a better score, but in a three-legged race like journeying around Europe together, it’s the slower runner that sets the pace…

Back in Australia, teachers are almost finished weeks of testing and are putting half-yearly reports together. Carefully choosing their words so as to use the clearest language and best possible description of each child’s learning journey over the past five and a half months. Trying to inform and not offend, to encourage yet not create false perceptions. Meanwhile the Department of Education and Communities (I think that’s their latest moniker after yet another name change) are busy sawing off the teachers’ legs above the ankle. I’m well out of the whole sorry affair.

Spending time with your family is both painful and immensely satisfying. Certainly, it far exceeds my expectations of fullfilment. I suppose that I’d imagined our odyssey in terms of observing things together and sharing in our children’s wonder at the immensity and scope of European history, where was forged, the artefacts created and the richness and diversity of contemporary societies. In fact the girls are far more likely to remember the Colosseum as the place we were headed to when we saw a cat like Merv sunning himself in a carpark with six other cats just before the train arrived.

As it transpires - the opportunity of a lifetime has actually been; the chance to participate intimately in the daily life of my family; to experience communal life with a bunch of girls (I grew up without sisters); to notice small changes in my daughters’ development towards understanding and adulthood; to notice that in growing old together with my wife – that we still love and respect each other. I wouldn’t swap it for quids… Still, I spend a lot of time reflecting on my kinship with Jonah and where the great fish is taking us.

Thirty-four years ago I came to Europe and stayed for four years. My mum bought me a small camera, from which I developed the single roll of film I’d managed to shoot, upon my return to Australia. Perhaps I’ll be more successful with a postcard:

Hi Mum,

Traveling through Europe with the family - having a whale of a time.

Your loving son,

Jonah

Welcome to our country, as long as you’re French.

I have to say that the people whom we encountered in Northern France were very curt with us, despite our best efforts to communicate in their language. As opposed to say Filipinos, Spanish or Italians who are, in general, delighted with the most basic attempts to express oneself in their respective languages. So what’s the problem in France? Why does one get the impression that ‘La Belle Pays’ only comes back to life after you reach the exit. “Yes, count yourself lucky that I was able to understand your incomprehensibly garbled rendition of the national language and fortunate that we consented to allow you to enter the country – now run along.”

As far as I’m aware English has become a fairly major language in the world at large. It originates from the quaint, wet little island to the north of France, but still a neighbouring country. So buying a Sat –Nav in France, one might expect to find some English translation, as the packaging boasted instructions in four languages – yes that would be – Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and French.

During the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, French became the official diplomatic language of Western Europe, just as Ancient Greek was spoken around the Mediterranean, by the Romans. But the world has turned and French is now spoken only in a select few countries beyond the borders of France. English on the other hand is widely spoken throughout the world. Let’s face it - the French must be disappointed that their language is no longer considered important.

Perhaps the snide indifference and feigned ignorance of other languages is their collective response to the shrinking significance of the French language? Perhaps it’s a kind of 'little man syndrome' (you know, the one who’s irascible and aggressive towards others, throwing his weight around while looking for the encouragement of his fellows). To this visitor, it manifested as coldness and indifference and a conquest to insist that unadulterated French be spoken, even at the expense of their international tourist industry. To give a few examples:

·        Although English is taught in the French public school system, to refuse to speak in (zat filthy pig-latin) English.

·        At times when tourists try to communicate in French, to feign non-comprehension (Heather famously trying to order bread in a boulangerie (bread shop) in Paris to shrugs and an unwillingness to serve her).

·        Giving French-only instructions in aires, campsites and public places frequented by international tourists.

·        Shops using tills, which neither display the price for the customer to read, nor offer a receipt.

·        French internet sites which fail to offer the information in any international languages.

One remembers the French indifference to the protests of Pacific Nations and the international community to their repeated testing of nuclear weapons at Mururoa Atol.  The French had a national obsession with maintaining a nuclear arsenal whilst finding it acceptable to test their weapons in the Pacific Ocean.

One also remembers the subsequent actions of the French secret service in scuttling the flagship of the Greenpeace movement – ‘The Rainbow Warrior’ in Auckland Harbour – murdering  a member of the crew.  The lurid details of their attempts to evade detection became known to the world when they were arrested, tried and found guilty of murder. This was no ‘Victory at Entebbe’, rather a second-rate shambles in which the observations of everyday New Zealanders led to their early detection and capture.

So how can we register our latest protest to the French nation? Here are some practical suggestions for Australian tourists to follow:

·        When speaking French, use a very broad Aussie/Ocker accent with a very cheerful smile.

·        As neither toilet paper, nor soap is ever provided in the (filthy) toilet facilities – always enquire of any food purveyors or restaurant staff if they have washed their hands with soap since their last toilet visit - before ordering (ask to sniff their hands if unsure).

·        Always do the reverse of the instructions provided in French language-only sites with a cheerful and innocent disposition. For example, use plenty of newspaper after doing number twos, being sure to shake hands with any startled Frenchman as you exit.

·        When paying, always deposit a large quantity of small mixed notes and coins, which is at least two Euros short (ten Euros for larger orders), before smiling and swiftly exiting the shop.

·        Leave messages on all French-only internet sites making reference to the hopeless French secret service and their pathetic efforts to be recognized as a European nuclear super-power.

·        Don’t visit France in the first place. Go somewhere friendly – there are plenty of other places in Europe to choose from.

 Having exited France, can I say how friendly and welcoming the Spanish people are….

Aw reevwah mon-sewers ette maid-mowselles!

Paull

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. 

More Philippines photos

 Mhiki climbing a coconut tree outside The Bamboo House Beach Resort, Talipanan, Mindoro.

 At the freshwater spring next door to Tita Aida and Tito Nestor's house washing clothes.

 Swimming in the salty water off Samal Island - outside Captain Hook's Red Parrot Inn!

 Island hopping on a catamaran, going around Talikmud. At one point the motor couldn't be restarted and it looked like we might be swimming home...

 The Philippine Eagle at the People's Park in downtown Davao. We were searched going in for cigarettes and felt pens (no smoking or graffiti).

 Family motorcycle with some custom tyres and exhaust (amplifier).

 Check out the custom parts. The exhaust (on the other side) was featured in a story about Saint Charbel - Patron Saint of the Custom Exhaust.

110cc Workhorse the pannier system leaves a BMW for dead.

The Full Filipino

The Full Filipino

It started at around 4:00am, an apprentice rooster (tandang) tries to outdo his rivals by clapping his wings - at least an hour before dawn – preparatory to stretching his scrawny neck as if for the chopping block before delivering a raucous, though strangled cry. A veteran follows suit, but as if to put the record straight, delivers a powerful and practised crow. Which brings forth the first dog, not to outdone, yapping with demented fervour about nothing in particular before a grumble from inside the house silences its vapid efforts.

The first motorcycles soon explode into life, throttling down the national road, helmetless riders shivering in the predawn chill, despite full jeans, jacket and crikey – even shoes! Tricycles ply their trade among housewives heading for the marketplace (palengke) to buy fresh produce for the daily cooking (many houses have no fridge). The tricycle is 100% draughthorse. The average 125 or 150cc machine screams its heart out weaving in and out of pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles, trucks, buses and the occasional car.  Its load could be anything from a single occupant to five or six school children, half a dozen 50kg sacks of rice or an entire family with the weekly supermarket shopping.

So it wasn’t out of place for a neighbour to be knocking at 6:30am (isn’t everyone up by 5:00?) to retrieve umbrellas very thoughtfully provided the previous evening out of consideration of our needs. Fortunately I was up, showered and groomed for the day though shirtless I realized upon reaching the gate.

A shudder of recognition rattles through my body as I momentarily reflect upon legions of brazen, beer-gutted and shirtless white men strutting about every Philippine tourist resort, their efforts to improve a suntan rewarded by pink and reddish flesh spilling over their sweaty shorts. Perhaps a trilby cheerfully perched high on the balding pate – a harking back to the days of yore or another trophy, like the beautiful young Filipinas who swallow their principles, to attend the carnal appetites of greying white males? Cathy cheerfully collected umbrellas to counter the gentle morning rain.

The family were scattered throughout the house in great disarray. Heather luxuriously stretched out on the lounge-room floor while the girls are nestled top-to-tail on a single mattress in an adjoining room. The house is cool and airy with plenty of natural light, viewpoints and ventilation. Although addressing the laneway, it simultaneously faces one side and the rear with a large, high-roofed open area accessed through double doors from the dining and entertainment rooms. Upstairs and overlooking the laneway, timber windows glazed with fine shell-work have been open overnight, while rear and side-facing louver windows complete the cross ventilation design.

Only the heat and the morning cry, ‘Tao, tao!’ (Soya drink vendor) remind you that this is the Philippines rather than Sydney inner city ultra-chic (their place is sooo minimal!). Unless of course you linger at the shell windows where looking down and to the left of the house, glistening Filipinos clad in shorts or dresses unselfconsciously bath/shower under a constant flow from a deep spring or chatter happily as householders and washing ladies conduct their sudsy business.

Time for a quick shop before breakfast, but the pandesal have almost sold out (I buy the last four pieces). I return to find the family yawning sleepily, stretching or canoodling. What’s for breakfast? This morning the girls are eating left-over spaghetti with sweet bread rolls (pandesal) while the adults scoff several monggo (pastries stuffed with pork) washed down with three-in-one (coffee, milk-powder and sugar). A few bananas finish the meal.

Normally we’d then proceed to our school-work (magaaral) but this morning there’s a problem – actually about a thousand problems - in the form of kuto (headlice and nits). Dad’s imminently practical solution to ’have it off/end of problem’ is countered by mum’s suggestion to find some kuto experts to remove them. Dad is highly sceptical and who would argue? Beneath the magnifier the situation resembles a fertile portion of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon - nits clustered like ripe grapes - festooning the hair with something in excess of a thousand eggs. ‘Netty’s hair has been populated by an entire barangay (town) of kuto’, quips Cathy shaking her head. However, kuto experts are duely summoned along with a manicurist for good measure.

Cathy has come to cook lugaw (a delicious rice dish cooked with chicken, onion, garlic, ginger, spices and glutinous rice). As we begin the delousing task, the first 20-odd adult lice tumble to the floor. ‘What do we do with them mum?’ Mhiki innocently asks. ‘Kill them, kill them all – crush them!’ comes the reply between gritted teeth. I have a fleeting vision of a Nazi general screaming orders to an assembly of startled officers as the realization that Soviet forces have managed to encircle Stalingrad dawns). Nep is quietly amused and mischievously suggests that millions rather than thousands, might be the order of the day. As the body count rises, the enormity of the task becomes clear. Soon there are over 60 twitching carcasses. Ants arrive to begin disassembling body parts to cart across the tiles for later storage and consumption. Nothing gets wasted in the Philippines.

After Cathy has conducted a lesson on the finer points of lugaw preparation and leaves there’s a soft knock at the door. Heather ushers in a lady with a small handbag. Mistaking her for the kuto queen, she begins to display regiments of nits and the morning’s massacre of moaning lice. Unperturbed, our visitor opens her bag to reveal nail trimmers and polishes of various shades and hues – it’s the manicurist!  Who ever needs to leave the house to be a tourist in the Philippines?

Mhiki’s the first customer, receiving a ‘Hello Kitty’ design in pink, white, yellow and black. Cathy arrives back and wonders why the nit-pickers haven’t arrived. It transpires that they are having a nap, after a full morning of cooking, washing and cleaning at their homes. Cathy rouses them from their rest to attend the house of Tita Aida and the Australian tourists. All three arrive, one lady apologising laughingly that she’s forgotten her teeth. The two ladies set to work –their eyes widen as they examine battalions of itlong ng kuto (nits) adorning Netty’s hair.

Fortunately Heather has prepared the groundwork under instruction from Cathy - first wash out the baby oil used this morning with shampoo, rinse, then apply nit shampoo and leave for ten minutes. Like many consumables, the chemical cocktail is a veritable alphabet of frightening substances best handled with lead gauntlets and a disposable suit, so it’s no surprise that the headlice are reduced to gaggle of gibbering idiots. At this point many stagger drunkenly about in a chemically induced stupor like New Years eve revellers at sunrise on Bondi Beach. Easy pickings for the hawkish predations of the kuto ladies, who disdainfully dispatch the wretched survivors and even now are managing to remove two to three nits at a time.  Hatchlings are swept up in the carnage, as Netty’s t-shirt becomes a graveyard of crushed eggs and dismembered bodies. Stalingrad 1945.

At this point dad enters the room to find Netty attended like some middle-eastern princess. Cathy has joined the fray as the ladies fondle her hair, the manicurist deftly cleans, trims, buffs, and prepares Netty’s nails for a sunflower design in maroon, yellow and white. So this is what comes of ignoring your parents’ advice it seems. 

We’d sternly instructed her to keep her hair tied back, to avoid catching nits while visiting a group home where their presence is as assured as the sunrise. Needles to say the opportunity to enjoy the attentions of a bevy of boy admirers, proved more attractive than boring old parent talk and consequently her hair had trawled the territory for nits. Fortunately her attitude is contrite as dad asks her to recite from memory a passage from Proverbs 1:8:

 ‘Listen my child to your father’s instruction and do not forsake your mothers teaching. They will become a garland to grace your head and a chain to adorn your neck.’ Better that than a garland of headlice comments dad, heading away from the toilette of Nefertiti, to attend to the washing-up.

Heather has a plain golden-orange lacquer applied, after her nails have been adeptly fashioned - cuticles trimmed and the hard skin adjoining the nail removed to perfection. Even dad has his first sally into the feminine mystique, receiving the full nail treatment plan/hold the polish. The manicurist has repeatedly painted around each nail with a pink antiseptic-come-setting compound. This later raises the eyebrows of several conservative gents as dad ventures forth to procure more load for our pay-as-you-go internet gadget. A pair of pink fluffy slippers outside the local RSL being the Aussie equivalent.

At this juncture, Heather exits for the palenke with Mhickles in tow, leaving dad to supervise the mopping-up operation and to start to record the day’s events. Come six, it’s time to attend the evening’s festive meal at the home of Nep, Cathy and Bel. In the short stroll to house the contrast to the Australian street scene at 6:00 pm is stark. Rather than cloistered in their houses, glued to the televisual tedium, Filipinos are on the street, playing, chatting, strolling (like passegatta in any provincial Italian town) – forgetting their workaday troubles and cares. A few children getting stroppy before hapunan (dinner) are brought swiftly into line and the game continues.

Nep is squatting at a barbeque grilling marinated chicken, pork and hot-dogs while the finishing touches are applied to pork dumplings and stuffed bangus (milkfish). A rooster, having managed to tie himself to the tree with his own leg-rope looks confusedly about – perhaps wondering if the white meat is family. Cheesy hot-dogs, dim-sims, two varieties of Lumpia (one stuffed with green chillies) Filipino salad (cucumber, tomato, tofu, mango and salted egg), and pandesal joins Heather’s contribution of a traditional salad with dressing. Bananas, rice and soft drinks complete the banquet. As the children are served, they quickly disappear towards the entertainment room, while the adults begin to sample the delicious offerings. Conversation turns toward the differences between Australia and the Philippines.  Yes, we also have corruption in our country, but (Alan Bond aside) our corrupt businessmen or government officials are generally stripped of their assets, gaoled and publicly humiliated (Bond went to gaol, but had his assets hidden from view – bringing them out years later to give his daughter a multi-million dollar wedding).

Corruption in the Philippines is of a completely different order. The late President Ferdinand Marcos, holds a place in the Guiness Book of Records for the largest theft in history. The fabled Marcos wealth reportedly consists of billions of dollars and tons of gold bullion deposited in as many as 51 bank accounts in Switzerland. Government lawyers claimed that Marcos had used dummy foundations to hoard his wealth. Former First Lady Imelda Marcos has 800,000 ounces of gold in unfrozen accounts in Switzerland. Imelda Marcos is currently a serving Senator in the Republic of the Philippines and has reinstated a host of her cronies. Tragic.

Walking home the air is a comfortable temperature. Life in the street continues unabated, though the population has shifted, as children are replaced by an older generation relaxing, socializing, eating street food. Some young men are playing instruments (an acoustic guitar and an improvised drum-kit) and singing. Much later lying awake there’s still action outside, though it’s starting to wind-up. Not surprising, as it all starts again in about 5 hours…

                      From left Mhiki, Kuto lady #1, Netty (aka Nefertiti), Kuto lady #2, Cathy and Manicurist (back to camera).

Welcome to the World of International Internet Banking (where access to your money is optional))

This is another rant, rather than a blog, so if you're of a squeamish disposition stop reading here. 

I have to admit I hate banks... I'm using the word HATE here. I mean, they hold onto our money and invest it, making squillions from our collective savings (witness record bank profits and astronomical C.E.O. remuneration packages), but it's never enough. There are bank charges, account keeping fees, transfer fees and transaction fees to name but a few. So, with all this money being deducted from my account, I feel sorely aggrieved about a current problem I'm experiencing with a certain Australian bank. 

I can't tell you which bank (though its logo has something to do with a brightly coloured, mythical reptile) and I can't reproduce our email communication, as I'm prohibited from doing so according to advice posted on their website. What I can do is to tell my side of the story, using my own records:

Hello, 

I'm trying to arrange an international money transfer. The problem is that your bank wants to send a verification code to our temporarily disconnected phones in Australia. Therefore we need to update our account details, but to do this the same protocol applies, so we're stuck! 

We want to use our email address from which we're sending this message, as this will allow us to receive the verification code without hassles. Please assist us as we need to transfer the money a.s.a.p. for a holding deposit on a vehicle purchase. 

Thanking you in anticipation,

P.M.

About three hours later (Australian time) I received a response - which I might add contained several spelling and a host of punctuation errors. The communication thanked me for my email, then offered that I might avail myself of the telephone banking helpdesk, either in Australia or from overseas using an international code.

Hmmm I thought - do I really want to make an international call only to be told that my call is important to the bank, then listen to musak designed to placate me while the money meter spins like a demented Catherine Wheel. No I thought, we actually did our homework on this one, I'm sure it can be sorted out via email. So I wrote again:

2^nd March, 2012.

To Whom it May Concern,                                               

Presently we are attempting to place a deposit on a vehicle in the UK using an international money transfer, via .. ......'s (bank's name deleted) internet banking service. We are in danger of losing the vehicle to another buyer, as it seems that your bank cannot service our needs.

Before leaving Australia we commenced our use of the internet banking service, to iron out any problems. There were none. We informed .. ...... (bank's name deleted) staff at our local branch in ........ (branch's name deleted) of our intention to travel overseas for a period of ten months, at which time we detailed our itinerary, so that your bank was cognisant of our intention. At this interview we also made note of the fact that we would be purchasing a vehicle in the UK, which would require us to transfer large amounts of money.

At no time did your bank’s staff inform us that we would need to use an international roaming telephone account based in Australia (which is prohibitively expensive) in order to receive a verification code. We are currently using the local telephone network and don’t have international roaming on our Philippines account either.

We cannot transfer money from our account to purchase the vehicle, because your system requires us to receive a verification code, addressed to our suspended telephone accounts in Australia. We cannot access our account details, in order to request the use of one of our email address for verification purposes, because the system requires us to receive a verification code addressed to our suspended telephone accounts in Australia. Catch 22!

Your bank has our email addresses on its records, otherwise we would not have been able to access the service from Australia. This email has been sent from our roaming email service. If your bank cannot provide an international service to customers who have made every effort to inform your bank of our travel and financial plans, we cannot continue to use your services.

Your banking service has been remiss in not providing its clients with accurate information, when we approached your bank at branch level in order to avoid such a problem. Unless your so-called help service can come up with a better plan than expecting me, the client, to sort out your bank’s inefficiencies - we will close our all of our accounts from London. I am one very dissatisfied customer! Please do the following forthwith;

1.     Try to sort this problem out swiftly, using the help service or alternatively

2.     Please email the name and email address of the Manager of Internet Banking Services.

Thanking you in anticipation,

P.M.

By now my ire was up. I decided that the personal approach was called for. So I wrote again about 40 minutes later.

Dear ...., (name deleted)

Checking back on my emails, I see that you seem to be spanning both the Electronic Banking and Customer Support desks - perhaps .. ...... (bank's name deleted) isn't taking its customer assistance responsibilities very seriously.

As the mobilehome we are attempting to purchase is to be our accommodation in the UK, will .. ...... (bank's name deleted) cover our accommodation costs in the UK if the sale falls through?

P.S. According to .. ......'s (bank's name deleted) own FAQS information about money transfer to
an international account, I quote:

15.  Can I transfer money to an international bank account?

Yes. You can transfer to an international bank account using the 'Transfer to an International Account' function, located within the Transfers and Payments menu….. Once it is processed, you will have access to this function the next time you log on to Internet Banking.

16.  How long will it take for money to reach an international account?

Payments that are confirmed before 5pm AEST, Monday to Friday, will be processed on the same business day. However, the time it takes for the money to be credited to an international account will vary and we cannot indicate a specific timeframe.

Please note - there is no mention of verification codes, nor mention of international roaming telephone accounts! Please email the Managers details as requested by close of business AEST today.

Thanking you in anticipation.

Needless to say, I'm still waiting though I feel a warm inner glow knowing that my call is important to the bank (though not important enough to put two bodies on the internet help desk). It's reassuring to know that the banks profits are being spent so wisely.