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’.