On the Bicycle Sex Offenders’ Register, almost!

Gingoog City, Mindanao

(Gingoog, pr: gin-go-oh, hard g’s)

On the Bicycle Sex Offenders’ Register, almost!

I met Carlos on my second visit to the Coffeeteria. 

He was sitting at the adjacent table, dressed in a tee-shirt and jeans, and every now and then talking hurriedly into a walkie-talkie. I asked him what he was doing. “I’m with the emergency response team, police,” he said. “We’re monitoring the situation around town. I’m on-call.”

“Oh!” I said, surprised, but upon looking a little more closely, I did see that he had that police ‘buff’ thing going on. Still, he wasn’t radiating the corresponding silent ring of ‘don’t get too close citizen!’ so we began chatting.

In his forties, Carlos was another Pilipino who’d worked throughout the Gulf Region for some years before returning home with money and experience. “I did military security, worked with the local forces,” he told me. “Dubai, Saudi, Qatar.”

We talked about the vagaries of the Gulf. “And so, how was Saudi?” I asked.

“Nuts!” he said, and chuckled, and I chuckled too, as you do when you’re chatting with the police. Yes, bicycle shop proprietors, immigration officers and cops; without a word they make you feel like you’re on the back-foot, and you need to compensate.

“So, how’s things around Gingoog?” I asked, jollying things along.

“Pretty good,” he said, “but with Christmas we’re keeping an eye on things.” Indeed, I’d noticed the strong police presence the minute I’d arrived in town. There was one on every corner, and you could feel the vibe, like a tight force field. Eyes everywhere.

I talked about what I was doing, and explained that I was leaving for Surigao City on the bike as soon as Christmas was over.

“Oh, you need to be careful between here and Surigao,” he said.

“Oh, really?” I said. “I thought the north coast was pretty much Muslim free. This is why I came this way.”

“Yes, but it’s not the Muslims up here, it’s the Communists!” he said, lowering his voice and looking furtively around.

This action did remind me of American friends talking about things politically incorrect. Even though you may be sitting together in, say, the middle of a Cambodian forest, with not another English speaker within 50 km, they still tend to whisper and look about. It’s a strange thing.

“The Commos?” I asked, a little too loudly. “I thought the Communists had all gone Allahu-akbar and become fanatical Muslims.” 

He laughed. “No, they’re still operating in the mountains, and from here to Surigao it’s all open country, which is why you need to stick to the highway. And don’t cycle at night!”

“It’s OK, Carlos, I never cycle at night,” I said. “I tried it once in Vietnam. It nearly killed me.”

“Well, may be so,” he said, not to be put off, “but be off the road by four, and avoid crowded places.” 

“Avoid crowded places? What, like the market?”

“Yes, stay out of the markets, the malls, the shopping centres, the bus stations,” he went on. “Anywhere where people gather, just keep cycling through, and don't stop. And don’t talk to strangers! You never know who you’re talking to, and why they want to know where you’re going.” 

Don’t talk to strangers? That was going to be hard.

And the markets? The Central Markets are usually the first place I head to when arriving into a small town. They're large, open-air structures with high roofs, providing cool relief from the fierce sun. They sell cheap food, cold drinks and fresh fruit, and the local colour is on-tap. They’re just the ticket for irritable cyclists needing a break.

I guess they could go KABOOM! I hadn’t really thought about it….

Carlos was a government official, and obviously knew his stuff, but was he being realistic or perhaps overly zealous, like DFAT? 

--------------------------------

There’s something about DFAT: an interlude

The Australian Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT) put out weekly travel warnings for Australian citizens, and the website reads like Fox News. Go figure! Right now, if you believe DFAT, Mindanao is pretty much descending into total anarchy.

Maybe I should send them an email?

Dear Mr DFAT,

Although we acknowledge that your facts, taken in isolation, are quite probably accurate, they are, however, only part of the story, and as such, skew the view. Right now we’re eating ice-creams and admiring the view from Gingoog pier. There are a few beggars around, which is pissing me off (Mr Felix), but apart from that, everything’s apples here. Perhaps you could report this on your website?

In any case, keep trying! The world loves a trier.

Your pals,

Felix & Mr Pumpy, Australian citizens, bicycling in Mindanao.

PS. Does Rupert Murdoch get his news from you, or is it the other way around?

Naturally, DFAT, being a government agency, plays to the lowest common denominator, read: anything other than cuddly koalas and stuffed kangaroos, or the equivalent of, is risky. And if you’re doing water sports somewhere exotic, make that Flipper. The more cynical view, however, is that if the shit does come down on an Australian tourist’s head, DFAT and the government will be called upon to act. This, of course, costs money and effort, so they tend to the dissuasive viewpoint on things international danger. 

Yes, and after this little fair and balanced rave, I certainly hope I don’t get kidnapped, viz.;

Place: DFAT Head Office, Canberra

A functionary person at a desk: Hey, we just got a communiqué from Mindanao. It seems that a Mr Feeliks and a Mr Bumpy have been kidnapped by Kafirs. Said Kafirs are demanding twelve bottles of Cottees Chocolate Sauce as ransom. Hmm, weren’t those guys the two cyclist blokes who sent us that cynical email? Yes, I think it was. Well, fuck ‘em! Let ‘em eat their ice-cream without chocolate sauce!

OK, maybe DFAT is just looking after Australian citizens as best it can. (Love your work, chaps!)

-------------------------------

“Oh, yes,” said Carlos, after a short silence within which I was chewing through the above, “just make sure you get a Pensione House near the police station. If anything happens, you can then contact the police straight away. They’ll look after you.” (Pensione Houses are the local guesthouses.)

A Pensione House near the cop shop? Jeez, sounds a bit expensive! Cheap Pensione Houses tend to be in the dodgy parts of towns, and where they are, I dwell.

“OK,” I said, when things were wrapping up, “that’s all good to hear, Carlos, I appreciate it!” Which was true enough, but frankly, meeting Carlos was like unexpectedly appearing on the Bicycle Sex Offenders’ Register. To wit; the friendly policeman had just explained to me what I was not going to be doing for the rest of my life. 

C'mon, man, she told me she was 24 speed! Honest!

Yes, Carlos had put the wind up me. As it happens, I’d planned on seeing out the Christmas madness in Gingoog anyway, rather than be on the road with half the Pilipino population, so I had a few days to assess my options.

Maybe I could get my fortune read?

I went to the fortune-teller,

To get my fortune read,

I didn’t know what to tell her,

I had a dizzy feeling in my head…

(Neville)

Slow grind into Cagayan de Oro!

It’s about 100 km from Iligan to Cagayan de Oro, but my odometer is down (it’s an internal problem, so no-can-fixee!), and road signs are almost non-existent. To keep track of progress I count kilometre posts, but they come and go, along with the road works that are kicking up dust and rocks wherever I've been in Mindanao.

Surrender to the road, Feely!

My cogset (rear cluster) has been playing up since I arrived, and has now decided to lose nearly all function; Housten, we have a problem! Fuck! I’m down to four high gears. The hills come and go and aren’t so big, but the high gearing gets me in the end, and I end up walking up most of them. It’s stinking hot, slow going, and the mind, like a boy without a purpose, begins ripping shit up. 

One foot after the other….

Still, the locals are friendly, the road’s good, and the traffic’s not too bad despite the fact I’m forced onto the shoulder a few times by overtaking cars. I do find that giving the finger and shouting ‘Fuck you, arsehole!’ seems to have a positive effect on my morale, odd thing that that is.

Just after Gitagum the road, heading 10 km inland over a bluff, winds upwards, and just keeps going. Again, it’s not so steep, but unrelenting, so I slide off the bike after about 2 km and walk the rest. I’m so drained from the heat and gear problem that I stop and rest every 15 minutes, and wonder why I do this. My mind, always its own boss, transitions through old girlfriends, family and further into the bottomless dynamic of the primary school playground. Almost-forgotten loves, hates and feelings of longing and injustice bubble upwards, and soon I’m wondering why I even bother breathing. 

Existentialism, it must be stated, shadows the cyclist like an extra pannier bag, attached securely or not.

Plod on, Feely....

At 5:30 the sun is on the way down, and Opel, a run of wooden roadside shacks, is lighting up. What is this place? Music, blinking lights, crowds, food stalls, and girls in colourful clothing standing outside of karaoke joints waving to me. I smile as best I can and grunt past. Re karaoke bars, one must keep in mind that karaoke bars run a wide gauntlet from the kinds of places you take your kids to on a Sunday afternoon, to darkened sheds where the girls all want to be your best friend. Opel, obviously, has a lot of the best friend variety. 

I feel so hot, sweaty, grimy, and just so damn exhausted, that the last thing I want is to be close to anybody, much less sing Beautiful Sunday and do jiggy-jig, if it came to it.

Me: Sorry, babe, I just can't do it! No power in the legs!
Her: You number 10! You number 10!
Me: You don't have coffee at your place, do you?

Yes, what I want is a real coffee, a shower, and then another coffee. By the time I get into Cagayan de Oro life is raining, dark and sodden, so I go in search of a McDonalds. 

Dunkin’ (The Great Satan) Donuts!

Statement of Belief: Felix and Mr Pumpy hold very strong anti-American fast-food franchise views, but they also believe that one must not be overly dogmatic when it comes to available coffee in Asia. They are what are known technically as 'moderate' ideologues.

Having caught the early morning ferry from Ozamiz City to the small port town of Mukas, I was now in Lanao del Norte Province. Except for one sober-minded Malaysian chap I’d run into in Ozamiz, I’d been warned off del Norte from all quarters for the past two weeks, viz.; Treachery! Extortion! Kidnappings! Muslims! And you'll be a sitting duck, just like President Kennedy, but on a bike.

Oh, dear!

The moderate word was: 'If you insist on going, stick to the coast, as the deeper inland you go, the deeper in you’ll get. But whatever you do, Felix, do not go to Marawi City. If you do you will never come out!’ Marawi sounded like the Death Star.

I decided to stick to the coast, and avoid Marawi.

By the time I got to Linamon town, a few kilometres short of Iligan City, I’d been on the road for six hours. Other than a relentless sun quietly drilling through my skull, and leg bones sucked of all marrow by the humidity, things in del Norte were sweet; blue mountains, green paddies, cascading rivers, a turquoise ocean, a good road, and helpful locals.

The population along the coast appeared to be still mainly Christian, as it had been all the way on the run down from Dapitan to Ozamiz. However, the odd mosque was now popping up in amongst the plethora of churches, along with a few hijabs and men walking about in robes and white caps. 

In Maigo, whilst sipping on a Coke, I did see a couple of full-faced black burqas. They were weaving silently through the market place, and I did think of stealth-submarines navigating a dangerous reef system of bananas and overhanging bric-a-brac. Yes, such is the mind of the conversation-starved cyclist experiencing alternate waves of sugar depletion and flood. 

If truth be told, the burqas make me uneasy, and I was keeping count. It’s not as if there’s a sign up saying, ‘You are now entering a radicalised area. If you are white and on a bicycle, you’d be a dickhead to proceed!’ No, this game, however inexact, is called Count the Burqas.

At Linamon I was done in, so I pulled into a clean-looking roadside stall on the north side town advertising Halal Food. The owner ushered me into the shade and took my order. Mano was in his forties, and exuded a robust, easy-going manner, which was welcome. He’d worked in Saudi and Bahrain for fourteen years, and was accustomed to Westerners. “Are you American?” he asked.

“No, mate, Australian,” I said.

“Are you Muslim?” I asked, pointing at the halal sign.

Mano laughed. “No, no, I’m Christian. Seventh Day Adventist,” he said, “but I serve everybody. Business is business.” 

Despite being overwhelmingly Roman Catholic, there’s a slew of Protestant churches popping up all over the Philippines; SDA, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and an endless run of evangelicals with names approximating First Church of the Gospel, Church of Christ Resurrected, Church of Evangelical Truth et al. Similarly, the Muslim population is riven by numerous sects, and they sometimes shoot at each other, at least down Mindanao way. It's a fun place the Philippines.

I shovelled chicken stew into my mouth, and washed it down with Coke. I’d discovered I was famished. “So, Mano,” I asked, waving my hand in the general direction of the road, “it all looks pretty safe out there as regards kidnappings and stuff. Is there any need for me to be worried?”

“No, Felix, you’re perfectly safe here in Linamon town,” he said, brightly. “There’s a Christian majority here, so things don’t get out of hand. But whatever you do, don’t go to Marawi.”

“Well, I've heard things," I said, "but why’s that?”

“It’s all Muslim down there and you look like an American, so they’ll find some way to steal from you. I’ve lived here for three years and I’ve never been down. Believe me, it’s dangerous.”

“But it’s all pretty good up here on the coast, eh?” I asked.

“Well, no problems in town,” he said, “but just outside of town there’s a construction site. You would have passed it on your way in. Last night they kidnapped the owner. Big problem.”

“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me!” I said. 

“No, no, it’s true! It happened last night,” he said. I had indeed passed the construction site, and I’d wondered why there were so many men with guns running about. 

“Ah, who’s ‘they’, Mano?” I asked. “Who did the kidnapping?”

“Nobody knows!” he said, throwing his hands in the air, like a child letting go of a balloon, which I found oddly disturbing. “It could be the Muslims, it could be just criminals. It happens all the time. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Great,” I said.

After dinner that night in Iligad City I went in search of real coffee. In many parts of Asia this is not an easy thing, and the Philippines is no different. My last resort is some bullshit American franchise like Starbucks or God help me, McDonalds, but it sometimes comes to that, alas. 

Cutting through a maze of unlit backstreets, I made a right-hand turn and nearly collected a seekad. The seekad is the ubiquitous three-wheeled contraption you see throughout the Philippines, and consists of a bicycle with an attached cage for carrying passengers. I pulled hard left and came to a halt, missing him by inches. “Sorry, mate!” I called out, and smiled, which usually does the trick in SE Asia when accidents nearly happen. 

The driver, however, was already out of his seat and on verbal fire.“You bung-gah bung-gah me! You bung-gah bung-gah me!” he screamed. God knows what ‘bung-gah bung-gah’ meant (the mind boggles!*), but he was clearly making a show of being wronged, and no doubt angling for compensation, however baseless.

WTF?

I waited a few moments, expecting him to settle down, so we could then exchange pleasantries and perhaps organise dinner, but the more I waited the more he worked himself into a lather. What the fuck was this guy on? I decided to sally forth and nip it in the bud. “Yeah, well, fuck you, mate, you’ve got no lights and you’re on my side of the road! What the fuck do you expect!” Not that fact, logic and a few fucks would have much effect on the outcome of this charade, but he needed to know I wasn't going to be rolled over. And then the Allah-hu-akbars started. 

“Allah-hu-akbar! Allah-hu-akbar! You bung-gah bung-gah me! Allah-hu-akbar!”

Fuck me. 

Religion! We were going nuclear, and we were drawing a crowd. This put the wind up me a bit. I had no idea what the affiliation of the crowd was, and if things got heated, I didn’t want my particularly mordant views on literalised religions to be tabled along with the other well-thought-out, yet apposing, statements of belief. Yes, ‘Western cyclist insults Islam! Gets beaten to death with bicycle pumps by seekad drivers!’ is not how I wish to be remembered by Melbourne cafe society. Just as well we weren't in Marawi, I guess.

Like a stealth-submarine navigating a dangerous reef of bananas, I slipped through the crowd, got on the bike and rode off.

Thirty metres up the road I could still hear him going for it. By this time I was out of harm's way, and I couldn’t help but laugh; this was a living, breathing Jacques Tati film! And as long as it remains farce, and doesn’t slide into tragedy, I’m with the programme.

Later, whilst sipping on a jumbo coffee at Dunkin’ (The Great Satan) Donuts (and experiencing another flood of sugar), I thought of Ned Kelly, the legendary Australian bushranger. Ned was the one who wore the suit of homemade metal armour (think 19^th century Darth Vader) in a bloody shootout with Victorian police at Glenrowan in 1880. Later, as they carted him off to be hanged at the Old Melbourne Gaol, he is reported to have said, ‘Such is life!’

I’m with you, Ned.

* I later found out that ‘bung-gah bung-gah’ means ‘to crash into’.

Pirates, Muslim Separatists & Photo Bombs!

Pictured: Great teeshirt, Julius!

1. Pirates: Of note, there was a report yesterday on the BBC that Southeast Asia, after many years of being shadowed by the Horn of Africa, is now officially the Pirate Capital of the World, once again. Go SE Asia! Winners! Now, Mr Pumpy and I are catching ferries around the Philippines, but we don't sail, nor ride oil tankers. Lookin' good, Julius!

2. Muslim Separatists: I’ve been getting serious warnings from locals, local expats and friends back in Australia about the possibility of getting kidnapped and held for ransom, or worse, in central Mindanao. OK, thank you friends, but let’s not lose our heads….

I ran into Michael, a Chinese Malaysian (ie. not a local, read: somewhat more objective) down by the pier here in Ozamis City today. He told me that Lanao del Norte Province, which is 'Muslim dominated', and where I'm heading tomorrow, is safe enough as long as I cycle during the day. "I never cycle at night, Michael!" I announced boldly.

"Then chances are, Felix, despite being white, and looking like an American, you'll be neither kidnapped nor beheaded," he answered solemnly.

Excellent! Go in peace, Whitey non-Americans on bikes!

3. Photo-bomb: "Noun: a photograph that has been spoiled by the unexpected appearance of an unintended subject in the camera's field of view as the picture was taken." – Wiki

Note the word ‘spoiled’. What I have to put up with….

Introducing Felix Stores!

Pictured: The first Felix Store, 6 km north of Ozamiz City, MIndanao.

Felix Stores!

Announcing the first of a franchised network of bicycle orientated general food stores throughout Asia. We sell what cyclists need! Jumbo buckets of Coke, beer, and fruit & yoghurt smoothies, as well as Snickers bars, Mars bars etc. and large tubs of chocolate ice-cream*. We also do fortune telling. Free camping available!

Note: Cigarettes and herbs are available at the back by the smoking veranda, right next to the karaoke!

* Please also note that all foodstuffs may be past their use-by-date, but don’t worry, they’re cheap.

Stop by on your way through, noble cyclists!

Oroquieta City, Mindanao

Getting the bike fixed at Poly Cycle Parts bike shop in Oroquieta City, Mindanao; with Jojo (in the white teeshirt), Mr Pumpy and the boys. No worries!

Maps