Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means (25 page)

 

 

Sunday 5 July turned out to be an amazing day, ending at the eight-thousand-foot Mayon Volcano, where I watched the smoking summit through a telescope. It began, though, with Ronnie the scrap metal guy, a likeable rogue who operated a yard in Calbayog. The entrance to his place was marked by two trucks set ten feet above the ground on a metal scaffold. In the yard there was an open-sided workshop and line upon line of scrap metal. Ronnie - a big man with a real sense of fun - had three young lads working for him and carried a pistol in his pocket.

I greeted him with a handshake. ‘So this is your kingdom then.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s my empire.’

‘Ah, even better then.’

Ronnie bought scrap metal from ex-fishermen, who had exhausted the supplies of fish by blowing them up with home-made sticks of dynamite, and were now using explosives to tear great chunks off wrecked ships in the bay, including a US warship that had been sunk by the Japanese. Part of this warship was awaiting collection at Ronnie’s brother-in-law’s place in Allen, where we were due to catch the ferry. Ronnie offered to take us with him.

I took an instant liking to Ronnie, a bright and inventive guy with an infectious good humour. Not only did he work in scrap metal, he also crushed plastic containers in a home-made press, then transported them to the port where they were shipped for recycling.

As we drove along I asked Ronnie about the gun in his pocket. He explained that it was for personal protection. He came across a few tough characters in his line of work and it was not unknown for people to ‘disappear’. I knew there was a lot of political instability here, with at least two rebel factions fighting the government. In the south it was Abu Sayyaf, an organisation trying to create a separate Islamic state. Up here it was the New People’s Army, the armed wing of the Communist Party. More about that later . . .

Ronnie was great company. He had a degree in engineering and architecture, which meant he could design a plan and see it through to completion. He’d built his own salvage truck, a massive flatbed with a crane on the back, from three different vehicles. After he obtained his degree he went to Saudi Arabia and was working in construction during the first Gulf War. Back here he dealt first in ice, then fish and now he was buying scrap. His wife runs the shop where the scrap is initially purchased; what is rubbish to some people is cash to her and Ronnie. The shop building itself is made entirely from reclaimed materials, including the windows from a bus.

Ronnie was also into all things mechanical, including motorbikes. I told him that we seemed to have a lot in common.

‘Yeah, Charley, we sure do. What’s that old English saying? Birds of a feather fuck together, is that it?’

‘Flock together,’ I told him. ‘Birds of a feather flock together, Ronnie.’

He laughed. ‘I always thought that was a weird expression!’

At his brother-in-law’s place I helped Ronnie and the three lads load up scrap metal from the rusted American warship. You could still see the rivets that once held it together. It weighed a ton and in the midday heat I was sweating buckets. We finally got it all on to the salvage truck and he drove us to the ferry terminal, where we said our goodbyes.

 

 

One more ferry. Old and rusty, it looked about ready for Ronnie’s scrap yard itself. Ah well - once we had crossed the short stretch of water to Matnog it would be overland all the way to Manila.

Another ancient hulk was tied up alongside our ferry. I watched a group of kids climb a rope to the top deck before leaping into the sea and thought about our journey so far. This country really was fascinating - so many different people doing so many different things. And the most enjoyable part was being allowed a glimpse into the lives of a few special people. People like Ronnie, Gloria from Carigara and Alex Montejo yesterday; people who left a lasting impression. Leaning on the rail as we steamed across the bay, I took a moment to consider the low hills of the island ahead and let the whole experience just work through me.

When we landed at Matnog we were met by volunteers from the Kabalikat-Bicol Province Rescue Ambulance Service, together with a whole bunch of people on scooters. They must have heard there was a film crew in the area and come out to see us. The ambulance reminded me of the volunteer service I saw in Mumbai. This organisation had been started in much the same way by concerned citizens and was funded entirely by donations. There are sixty-two chapters spread across the country and each chapter has a number denoting the area they cover. There are over three thousand members in total, and their achievements have just been recognised by the Regional Disaster Coordinating Council for this part of Asia. Each member is also given a number - their individual call sign - and that’s how they address one another. The Kabalikat chapter is number 30 and the guy I was talking to was the founder member, so he’d been given the number 01 by his colleagues. He told me it was an honour to wear it on his sweatshirt.

The ambulances were kitted out with stretchers, first-aid equipment and oxygen. Some of the volunteers were doctors and every item had been paid for either by individuals or by local companies. These guys were part of the emergency services, on call whenever a disaster struck.

01 was in his fifties, his hair cut very close. He proudly told me that his team attended every disaster that hit the region. ‘We know what to do and how to do it no matter the situation.’ Back in 2006 Mayon Volcano had erupted and at the same time a typhoon hit, setting off flash floods and mudslides. More than a thousand people were killed, entire towns destroyed and apparently hundreds of people were still listed as missing.

‘You have to have a strong stomach,’ he said. ‘Last year when the ferry went down our members were asked to help with the bodies.’ He was referring to the
Princess of the Stars
, a passenger ferry that sank in another typhoon. As the divers brought up the bodies, the volunteers helped get them ready for identification.

These are incredibly dedicated people who refuse to let the lack of government funds stop them providing a decent ambulance service. They were not only caring and dedicated but extremely hospitable, and they drove us all the way to the army base where we had been invited to watch a demonstration given by the Scout Rangers. The 3rd Battalion are the crack troops, guys whose job it is to deal with insurgents like the NPA and Abu Sayyaf. I had read in the paper that just a few weeks ago Abu Sayyaf claimed to have beheaded an American hostage, and two more Americans were still being held.

The rangers are led by Lieutenant Colonel Cirilito Sobejana, a forty-year-old guy who received the Medal of Valor from the government in 1995 - the country’s highest honour. He was awarded it after leading fourteen rangers in an attack on an NPA camp. He and his men were vastly outnumbered, and Sobejana was shot five times. He had that look about him: the killer instinct, I suppose you’d call it. I’ve seen it in a few soldiers I’ve worked with. Having been shot in the arm, his right hand was curled in a permanent fist. He had also taken rounds in the side and the back and spent two years in hospital as a result.

The rangers are a superb fighting force. They are jungle troops, their camp half hidden by palm trees. With billets made from bamboo with thatched roofs, it looked tranquil, almost sleepy . . . except for the armoured cars and guys walking around in military green. The sign on the gate read: ‘At your service across the land . . . any time . . . anywhere. The NPA’s worst nightmare.’

Sobejana wore jungle fatigues and a black beret with a red battalion badge above his left eye; he exuded confidence, as did the six hundred men he led. They work in teams of seven - including a sniper, a man trained to kill with a knife, another with his bare hands and another with a rocket launcher. They all carried M16s. Sobejana told me that only three weeks ago they had been in a fire fight with a faction of the NPA. They killed the rebels and recovered all sorts of weapons, including home-made landmines. The recovered weaponry was on display in the mess, including the machine-gun the leader had been firing when he was killed. It was pock-marked with bullet holes and his automatic pistol was shredded too. The bullet had torn through the grips and smashed his hip - it was apparently this shot that killed him. On the table were magazines, an assortment of other guns, the defused landmines and personal items, like the watches worn by some of the rebels.

We watched the seven-man teams put on a display, armed to the teeth, with camouflage painted in stripes across their faces. Sobejana told me they had one principle. It was brutally simple - life for the ranger and death to their enemy. As far as the rangers are concerned, the rebels will never succeed. They are in action all the time and the spirit of camaraderie was evident. Watching them, listening to them talk as we sat down to a ‘boodle fight’, I was struck by their collective sense of mission. A boodle fight is a meal without cutlery or plates - the rice and crayfish, fruit and coconut juice are served on banana leaves on a long trestle table. It’s a traditional way of eating and among the soldiers it’s a symbol of unity.

I had heard that the NPA had a lot of support among the poorer sections of the population, but the situation is complex and I’m not familiar enough with the politics to make any kind of judgements on the rights and wrongs of it all. Anyway, politics aside, you couldn’t help but be impressed by the commitment of Sobejana and his men.

The rangers knew we were travelling on to Legazpi City and offered to take us in one of their trucks because that stretch of road was dangerous for foreign travellers. Fine by me: with all this talk of gun fights and rebel armies, I was happy to be escorted by the most elite troops in the whole of Asia.

After the boodle fight we climbed into an army truck for the drive north and found the Kabalikat-Bicol chapter waiting outside. I thought they had gone ages ago but we were all heading in the same direction, so they had decided to hang around. Forming an unofficial convoy, we followed them, and half an hour up the road we were able to see them in action.

I had been talking to 01 earlier about the high number of motorbike accidents here. On the road to Legazpi City we came across a man who had ridden his motorbike into the back of a van. He was in a bad way, lying beside his mangled machine with a crowd of shouting, chattering people gathered around him. The ambulance crew leapt into action.

His right leg was a mess. Below the knee he was missing a huge chunk of flesh. Looking at the back of the van, I could see the indentation where his bike had hit - the exhaust pipe bent at ninety degrees.

It was an ugly wound and provided a physical reminder of how vital the volunteer service here is. In no time they had the poor guy stabilised, and with a pressure bandage applied to his wound they lifted him onto a stretcher. Moments later he was in the back of the ambulance and they were on their way with lights flashing and siren blaring. I take my hat off to them, I really do.

It seemed fitting that we ended the day with Ed Laguerta, a local vulcanologist. His observatory was at the foot of Mount Mayon, just outside Legazpi City, and we’d just spent the earlier part of the day with the people who responded the last time it erupted. There it was, rising above the valley with clouds swirling about its flanks and smoke billowing from the summit. I could smell the sulphur and Ed told me that right now the volcano was particularly active. It was at what he called Level 1, which was the first stage towards an eruption. Inside the observatory he had a stack of computers monitoring various sensors. It was getting dark, but he had his telescope permanently trained on the summit. Taking a peek at the smoke, I watched it spitting bolts of boiling magma.

That night I stared at the mountain from my hotel bedroom. It was incredible to be so close to such an active volcano. It was even more incredible to think that tomorrow I would get even closer. I had been promised a visit right up to the lava field.

 

 

Outside in the morning sunshine, the view was even more spectacular. The mountain climbed from an ocean of green, where palms grew tall and the water sparkled in the sun. Gradually, though, the green became grey and the grey black, as the lower slopes gathered at the base of the lava. I tried to imagine what it must be like living so close to nature at her most malevolent. The volcano could blow at any time, although the activity is monitored day and night and Ed assured me that in general it erupts only every five or ten years. The last eruption had been three years ago so despite the level of activity being at Defcon 1, as I called it, we were . . . apparently . . . pretty safe.

It was a blisteringly hot day; so humid that after ten minutes of walking, my clothes were sticking to me. A local councillor called Mr Chan was waiting for us on the other side of the river, wearing a white floppy hat and a warm smile. Hoisting my shorts to my thighs, I waded across and shook his hand. He had brought us some quad bikes, which was brilliant. Mine was green, 250 cc with non-existent brakes, but it was perfect to get me along the dry river bed to the foot of the volcano. I couldn’t quite believe we were actually going to a lava field; it was really exciting. Ahead of us the mountain was swathed in cloud. I could see the blackened field where the lava had cascaded down to nudge the valley below.

Following Chan, I criss-crossed various streams, where a group of guys were shovelling small stones to be collected by truck for the construction industry. It was back-breaking work for which they were paid the miserly equivalent of £2 per day. We came across teams of them all through the valley.

Initially we were riding on black sand, but that gradually gave way to rocky banks and larger boulders interspersed by patches of tall grass. You would think that a place like this would be fairly devoid of human inhabitants, but I saw kids washing where fresh water was gushing from pipes set into banks of stones; farmers watering buffalo, or carabao as they’re called in the Philippines; and more teams of men shovelling stones. Waving to them as we passed, we eventually came to a small encampment where Chan usually kept his ATVs. There was a line of bamboo huts set in the trees on a little rise, to the right of the dry river bed. Here even more people were gathered, Chan’s friends, his family - lots of children. Keeping a discreet distance were three heavily armed soldiers. Yesterday we had heard that there had been a series of bomb blasts in the southern part of the country, and with two missionaries still being held by Abu Sayyaf, the government was taking no chances. Whether we liked it or not, we had been assigned this army patrol and they had been following us since we left the rangers yesterday. We liked it, believe me. There is so much uncertainty in the world these days that it’s not worth taking chances. If this area was dangerous and kidnapping a possibility, I’d rather have armed guards than not. They were really on their mettle - one guy in particular was as tough as I’d ever seen: shaven-headed, sleeves rolled up and eagle-eyed. Nothing moved in the bush without him spotting it.