Jeepney surfing

I’m lying on the kitebag at the edge of a little-travelled road and looking up at the sky. Clouds pass behind a large ficus tree. Next to me, the local motorbike gang sits in the shade of the palaver. Chicks chirp, hens cluck, roosters scream. Children laugh, girls sing, men argue. A pig grunts. The wind rustles in the leaves of the trees.

The teachers are teaching in the school next door. In the village, a radio plays Filipino evergreens. A dog barks. The escaped goat eats the flowers in front of the church. The policeman throws a stone at it. Birds chirp. The paddy field sways in the wind. A woman hangs up washing. Thanks to its engine, you can hear the jeepney long before you see it. Everything is: good.

Economy Class on the lower deck is full today. For the two-hour ride to San Augustin in the north of Tablas, we treat ourselves to Business Class on the sun deck. The jeepney surfing on the partly unpaved road at a height of 2.5 metres is a bit shaky at first. But in the end it’s the same as kitesurfing: you get used to every condition. Every now and then, a palm tree will wave at your head. But that’s the most dangerous part.

On the roof are bags of rice, sunshades, chairs, two kitebags and us. The sun is beating down and the view is magnificent: the blue sea to the left, high mountains and palm trees to the right. Symphony in green and blue. Schoolchildren climb onto the roof and whole villages wave. We are away from the crowds again. It feels infinitely good.

Once again, a jeepney pirate tries to rip us off. Max asks for the price and the pirate says it’s far too high. I push my sunglasses down my nose a little and look at the pirate over the edge with a grin. I say a few words. Then he wants the normal price. Pirate’s strike. I’ve arrived here.

The crossing to Romblon is quiet today. In the harbour, porters pounce on my luggage. I bang my head again and get aggressive at the seventh enquiry “Need porter, sir?”: “NO!!!”. The porter flinches, we carry our luggage ourselves. Basically, the porters are hard-working beggars. They have nothing, but they don’t want anything in return. Please don’t ask me again when my head is bleeding!

The food at the Romblon Deli is as good as ever, but unfortunately Dave doesn’t have any rooms available. They’re all full with the next export consignment of marble. So I check the internet and the wind. Nothing but rain for a few days. I breathe a sigh of relief. Need a break. A downpour traps me in the deli for a while. Then off to my room, a quick sleep and on to the next island on the Montenegro RoRo ferry in the early morning.