No Common Sense

Copyright © 2024 John B McMillan

Paperback: 979-8-9897479-0-0

eBook: 979-8-9897479-1-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023924037

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Contents

Chapter 1:     Typhoon

Chapter 2:     South East Asia

Chapter 3:     White Knuckle Ride

Chapter 4:     Champagne On The Seabed

Chapter 5:     Watch Those Bubbles!

Chapter 6:     Que Sera Sera

Chapter 7:     Sometimes

Chapter 8:     Tide Of Fortune

Chapter 9:     Welcome To Jakarta

Chapter 10:   What Earthquake?

Chapter 11:   Eruption

Chapter 12:   Bali

Chapter 13:   A Trawangan Legend

Chapter 14:   Komodo Dragons

Chapter 15:   Diving in That?

Chapter 16:   Barefoot In Bat Shit

Chapter 17:   Deceptions

Chapter 18:   After The Tsunami

Chapter 19:   On Top Of The World

Chapter 20:   Bloodsuckers

Chapter 21:   Sipadan

Chapter 22:   Speaking Pidgin

Chapter 23:   Earthquakes Galore

Chapter 24:   Thailand

Chapter 25:   Birthday Mantas

Chapter 26:   Living The Dream

Chapter 27:   In Bed With Two Nurses

Chapter 28:   A Real Man

Chapter 29:   Maldives

Chapter 30:   Palau

Chapter 31:   Yap

Chapter 32:   Truk Lagoon

Chapter 33:   New Age – Old Age

Chapter 34:   Fellowship

Chapter 35:   A New Career

Chapter 36:   Paralysed

Chapter 37:   Festina Lente

Chapter 38:   On The Mend

Chapter 1

Typhoon

In a telephone conversation with my younger son, Euan, my former colleague, Norman Kirkpatrick, said, I have the greatest respect for your father, both as a friend and former colleague. He is an extremely intelligent man capable of a level of thought that I could never aspire to…(but when Norman makes one of those pregnant pauses after such a build-up, you know he is going to deliver the knockout punch!)…but he has absolutely no common sense! Euan agreed. Maybe they are right. Judge for yourself.

After an overnight stop in Manila, I planned on diving at Puerto Galera, Mindoro. To get there from Manila takes a journey of about 5 hours by bus and ferry. I hailed a taxi at the hotel to take me to the bus station to catch the bus to the port of Batangas. A few moments into the journey, the driver asked me where I was planning on going, then told me, You won’t get there today. I’ve just heard on the radio that a typhoon warning has been issued. Should I take you back to your hotel?

Well, if the world can play dirty tricks on you, this is one of the most likely places on earth for it to happen – or was it just bluffing? I had heard of typhoon warnings that came to nothing, just some heavy rain and a breeze. Maybe this would be the same. The track of a typhoon (known as a hurricane in the Atlantic, or a cyclone in the South Pacific and Indian Oceans) is difficult to predict. A warning is a statement of risk, not a cast-iron certainty. Ever the eternal optimist, I said, Och, just keep going. It may come to nothing.

I don’t think so. They said it was expected to be a category five typhoon. That’s a big one, the most severe.

Och, we get hurricane force winds regularly in the north of Scotland. We call it a ‘bit of a breeze’ where I live.

Truth is, I like a good storm. My late wife once told me on seeing my excitement when hurricane force winds had been forecast, You’re mad. Look at you! You are never happier than when a deep depression is approaching. You can’t wait to get out in it. It is always a great feeling to encounter nature at her roughest, to take appropriate action, and survive. I had that feeling of eager anticipation again.

As the bus left the city and the wide horizons of south Luzon opened up, it was clear that a classic storm was imminent. The sky had that pearl-grey look about it. The sun was a ghostly glow behind a thin sheet of high cloud, while low on the horizon storm clouds were gathering, a leaden-grey wall that promised rain, lots of rain, and behind that would come the wind. A category five typhoon, or super typhoon, has sustained wind speeds of more than 138 miles per hour (222 km/h). Comparing that with ‘gale force’ winds of 40 mph (64km/h) gives you an idea of what to expect. Such winds cause a lot of damage, build up enormous seas, and the accompanying rains cause extensive flooding. I felt a sense of foreboding, coupled with a build-up of excitement.

At the port of Batangas, all sailings had been cancelled. Crowds of people milled around; some looking worried, some confused, and the Filipinos among them sat around with that vacant look that said ‘Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.’ It’s as good an attitude as any in such a situation.

I reckoned hotel rooms might be difficult to find in Batangas on such a day, but I thought I might turn this to some advantage. About 30 km along the coast was Anilao, a place reputed to have good diving. With a typhoon imminent, there would be no prospect of any diving, but I could at least check the place out and maybe come back sometime. I hired a motorcycle trike to get me there. The village was tiny, with no hotels, but I found a room at a small coastal resort nearby. I was the only customer.

My room was at the end of a row, adjacent to the beach, but tucked in behind a massive sea wall. The building was of concrete block construction. Its thatch roof was netted. The windows had heavy tarpaulin covers drawn over them. I thought they might tear in a strong wind, and I was proved right, but otherwise it seemed capable of weathering a storm.

The annoying thing was that during this time there was no wind and the sea showed no more than a slight motion. Boats could easily have made the 75-minute trip across, but I know how quickly things can change at sea. I had no choice but to sit tight, wait, and ride out the storm when it came. I strolled down to the village to see what Anilao looked like. There wasn’t much to see. A few fisherman’s huts along the shore, a string of dive resorts further round the bay, and a main street with a few shops all selling the same things: food, clothing, phone cards, cooked food (but when was it cooked?), and that was it. Everything was closed by 6 p.m. There was no nightlife here. Which was just as well, as by that time the storm was beginning to make its presence felt.

With nothing else to do, I was in bed by 7 p.m. reading a book. I gave that up at 8:30 p.m. when I was plunged into darkness. The electricity power lines had fallen casualty to the force of the wind and fallen trees. I shut my eyes to the howling, banging, and crashing that was going on outside, as wind and waves thrashed the coast in fury, and slept through all this until 1:30 a.m. The shrieking of the wind then had an intensity that forced all desire for sleep out of the mind. This was something to live through. At least, I hoped I would live through it. All we need now, I thought, is an earthquake to create a tsunami, to coincide with the typhoon, and then I would be having a vintage Philippines experience! Two or three for the price of one is not uncommon here. I had that peculiar mixture of fear, fascination, and elation that I always get in a fierce storm, and an overpowering desire to be part of it. I grabbed my torch and got out of bed. I was standing in water. A tide of rain-water was being forced under the door. And more was dribbling in through the roof. I opened the door and shone my torch out.

Enormous frothing waves rose out of the gloom and thumped the sea wall, sending shudders right through the walls of my room. Spray flew skywards, mingled, and fell with the torrential rain that had saturated the thatched roof. Coconuts were hurtling through the air like cannon balls, thumping into walls and roofs. Branches, ripped off trees, flew like spears through the darkness. The ground was deep in debris: leaves, driftwood, nuts, branches, and water several inches deep.

If you had a desire to get yourself killed, this was the night to fulfil it. I pondered on the probability that I could walk from my hut to the gate and remain alive. It would be similar to walking into a hail of machine-gun fire, a life expectancy measured in seconds, with so much stuff flying through the air with lethal force. Several trees were down. I decided to keep my interest theoretical. This was not a night to be out in at all.

Curiosity satisfied, I went back to bed, but not before I had taken some additional precautions. I reckoned this must now be about the height of the typhoon’s ferocity. I packed my rucksack, sat it on the bed to keep it out of the rising tide of water that surged under the door, and had everything ready for a quick getaway, just in case. If that were to happen, the odds of survival were not in my favour, but at least I felt I was keeping my options open. It feels better to have done something. Like putting on a lifejacket when an aircraft is about to plunge into the sea, it is unlikely to save your life, but it will make it easier for search parties to find your body. I climbed into bed again and closed my eyes.

A few minutes later, I heard the rising wail of the wind. The building began to shudder. I could feel the air pressure build up in my ears. Heavy, hard things were attacking my walls and roof. How much more can it take? I wondered. Like an approaching high-speed train with its whistle blowing, the wind rose in a fearful, screaming crescendo. Lying flat on my back, every muscle tensed. I trembled, sweated with anticipation, excitement – and fear!

With a crack like a gunshot, I sat bolt upright. As I did so, I heard the tinkling sound of broken glass crashing down behind me on the bed. The curtain rail above the window ripped itself off the wall, and with the curtain still attached, flew around in the vortex of air that spun around my room as the wind howled through the broken window, before draping itself over me. Was this to be my shroud?

Looking on the bright side (why am I optimistic in the worst of conditions, yet can be miserable with minor mishaps?) I thought, well, at least the broken window helps to compensate for the failure of the electricity supply, which had rendered my ceiling fan inoperable. The wind had taken over as its power supply and I now had plenty of air circulating. But where was the broken glass? I shone my torch and there, sticking into the recess in the pillow where my head had lain, was an arrowhead of glass about 18 inches long. That would have skewered me in the eye, digging deep thorough the eye-socket into the brain and killing me, had I not reacted so quickly to the crack of the breaking glass.

I smiled with satisfaction. My speed of reaction had not diminished with age. That must have been the quickest sit-up I ever performed. It’s comforting to know you can still do it when you have to. I felt the odds of survival were improving.

The situation called for some re-assessment. The leak in the roof was worse and water was pouring on to the bed. I slid the bed to the opposite side of the room. This also reduced the risk of injury should any more glass decide to share a pillow with me. I repositioned my rucksack on the bed, between me and the hole that was once a window. That offered further defence against glass and other flying objects, for who knows what else might come zooming in through the hole. Having satisfied myself that all possible precautions had been taken and that luck was on my side, I fell asleep. I was unaware of anything else until 6:30 a.m.

One of the staff of the resort came down to check that I was still alive, and seemed relieved to find me so, and in good spirits despite the events of the night. I had repositioned the bed and the arrowhead of glass so that she could see how near I had been to death, or disfigurement. The poor girl was horrified at the thought of finding me lying there in a pool of blood with a glass arrow sticking out of my eye socket. She moved me to a room at the opposite end of the row, as far from the sea and wind as possible. Not that it mattered then. The worst was over.

The scene in the grey light of dawn was one of utter devastation. Palms, torn and forlorn, most denuded, looked like giant matchsticks. Other trees bore scars where branches had been ripped from them; some still clinging like broken limbs, dangling in the breeze. Fallen trees, broken branches, twigs, leaves, and palm fronds obliterated footpaths and roadways. Hundreds of coconuts lay like spent cannon balls on a battlefield. It looked like a typhoon had struck the place.

I was happy to have lived through it without injury. Happy too were the frogs: so much rain had fallen and created lakes where none had existed before. And the frogs celebrated. The noise of their croaking was deafening, like a crowd at a football match. I have never heard anything like it. It put a smile on my face. There is always something to be cheery about.

Typhoon ‘Durian’ had indeed been a category five storm. In the Philippines, the number of fatalities was in the thousands with hundreds more reported missing. In the Bicol province a huge landslide of volcanic ash, turned to slurry by the rains, had swept down the hillside and swallowed up entire villages, and the people in them. Many have never been found.

The following day, I managed to get a boat over to Sabang Beach on the Puerto Galera peninsula. The village resembled the aftermath of an air raid. Roofless buildings stood forlorn, smoke curled upwards from fires burning the wreckage of homes and fallen branches, and from all over the bay came the sound of hammering as men repaired damaged buildings. The electricity supply had still not been restored when I left after more than two weeks there, but hotels and restaurants had their own generators. Without power to operate the pumps that sucked water from the ground wells, many homes and guest houses had no water supply. Young men pushed large barrows filled with water bottles and gas cylinders to supply homes and restaurants. The local telecommunications mast was a useless stump, having had its top blown away. Cash machines at the banks and card readers in the shops could not operate.

The trees looked like they had been sprayed with weed-killer: defoliated, with drooping, broken branches. Their pitiful state had changed the landscape. Clearings had been created and houses that had previously been hidden were now exposed, many with windows and doors blown in, or with roofs missing. Yet, as in the bombed cities of Europe in the Second World War, the people were resilient. Life went on as usual and, apart from the power loss and water supply problems, it was easy to forget after only a few days that it had ever happened.

Another typhoon struck ten days later. The greying skies had all the tell-tale signs. The sea, smooth as silk, flexed its muscle in a restless swell, its thump and hiss on the shore an ominous warning of what was to come. The air was still and silent. Nature held her breath before another onslaught. The rain arrived that night, and then came the wind.

This time we were lucky: the centre of the storm had tracked well to the south of us. But Boracay, the major tourist island in the Philippines, had not been so fortunate: hundreds of trees were blown down, several resorts trashed, boats were sunk, and at least a hundred people were missing.

We had torrential rain. The one road that leads into the village down a steep hill became a river, knee deep in muddy brown water. My roof had leaked and I had another puddle on the floor, but I slept well.

And well away from the window!

Chapter 2

South East Asia

My yearning to visit the islands of the South Pacific had been nourished by my reading when I was young. Attractive images had formed in my mind and were reinforced by my travels, as described in my previous books, Recapturing Youth and Around The World in a Kilt, but being largely ignorant of Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia, Myanmar (formerly Burma), the Philippines, and Indonesia, I had never felt the same desire to visit the countries of South-East Asia. What knowledge I had was more of a negative nature, gleaned from reading about World War II, when the allied forces encountered not only a formidable enemy, but tropical diseases that claimed many lives: malaria, beri-beri, typhoid, dysentery, and dengue fever. That didn’t sound too cheery.

In the post-war years the British army had been engaged in anti-terrorist activities in Malaysia. In the 1960s and 1970s, the US forces had become involved in, and disentangled themselves from the Vietnam War. Millions lost their lives under the oppressive Pol Pot regime in Cambodia. Political instability and corruption emerged in the Philippines and Indonesia, as well as outbursts of terrorist activity and kidnappings by separatist groups. That didn’t sound very cheery either.

The South Pacific islanders had not been averse to practicing cannibalism, but that died out in the 19th century. However, in some of the remote mountain valleys in Sumatra, Papua, and Borneo, it has been reported within the last few decades that headhunters still practice their art. In such places ‘having you over for dinner’ could mean you might be on the menu! That fate befell an over-zealous missionary who, ignoring all advice, ventured into the interior of Papua to ‘save’ a tribe of cannibals – and helped to do just that by ensuring they did not starve. They ate not only him, but his wife and children as well.

South-East Asia seemed an uneasy sort of place, but how wrong that impression proved to be. Having listened to some travellers who had visited these countries, heard about the welcoming people, delicious food, stunning scenery, and superb diving, I had to find out for myself.

I enjoy independent travel, but my experience of trekking in a guided group in the Patagonian mountains had proved that it was a good way to gain some initial experience of a country where the language and transport may present some difficulties. Having a local guide who knows the language and can organise the transport arrangements is a big advantage until you develop enough confidence in your ability to communicate and manage by yourself.

I had no qualms about going to the Philippines as English is one of the official languages there, but for my first visits to Indonesia, Borneo, Thailand, and Vietnam I joined organised adventure tours. They offered an introduction to the way of life of the indigenous people and their culture, and provided opportunities for exploration. I had no hesitation in returning as an independent traveller to these places after that.

Crossing a street in any city in South East Asia seems impossible, but you only need the kind of faith that enabled Jesus to walk on water. Casting all vestiges of common sense aside, you boldly go where no sane person would dream of going, and step forward into the flow of traffic. Tourists gasp in horror. But if you show the anarchic drivers that you are as crazy and anarchic as they are, you earn their respect, and they dodge around you as you cleave a path through the mass of steel that surges along the road. And your faith in miracles is restored.

Manila traffic

I had hired a motorbike to get around in the Cook Islands. But here? No way! Well, that was how I felt at first, but after coming to the Philippines a few times and settling in one location for three months, I became as crazy as the rest of them. On the roads you have to be a committed anarchist or you’ll go nowhere. You need the ‘I’m not stopping for anyone or anything’ attitude. My taxi driver once drove straight through a red light at a pedestrian crossing with people walking across it.

Don’t you ever stop when there is a red light and people crossing?

There was enough space between them for me to drive through.

In Indonesia, queuing is an alien concept. At airports they walk up to the desk and try to barge in beside the person who is being checked in, hordes of them, whole families with their bags and string-tied cardboard boxes (they always travel with cardboard boxes), with no respect for privacy or orderliness. The line painted on the floor that tells you to Wait Here, is treated like the traffic lights. It is of no consequence. You have to become an anarchist at the airport too, and use your luggage to defend your place against usurpers, shunting them out of the way as they try to jump the queue. It is a delightfully de-civilising experience.

Shopping? Labels with prices on them are meaningless. Everything is available at a price, but only the one on the price tag