Bacolod, Damn!

For days I have been trying to get permission and a guide from the national park authorities to climb the 2500 metre high volcano Mount Canlaon in northern Negros. Harold directs me to Marissa directs me to Jim directs me to Julie and Angelo. 20 text messages don’t get me one step further. I leave without permission. On the bus, a resident of the last town before the volcano tells me: I have to go to the capital Bacolod first.

The Ceres bus there is overcrowded. A six-hour journey with a 15 cm lack of seat width and 10 cm less legroom is exhausting. I stand up and hit my head hard on the sharp end of the too-low handrail. A laceration. I spend the last 100 kilometres half hanging out of the door on the stairs – at least upright.

The weather has been good for most of the last few weeks. Even Typhoon Washi only brought a few hours of rain. Now it’s pouring with rain. All day long. A helper in Bacolod throws my kitebag into the dirt from the dirty spare wheel compartment in the back of the bus. Now it finally looks like a schnitzel. The bus helper’s grin reveals some nasty gaps in his teeth. Then he holds out his hand.

Habal habals cost three times more on Negros than in any other part of the Philippines. That’s probably why our driver thought in the morning “Well, then it doesn’t matter if there’s another 50 per cent surcharge”. He was right, as the only driver far and wide. Now in Bacolod, another overpriced driver drives me through the rain to the provincial government.

I’m finally there. Not the office of the national park authority. They send me to another building. It’s not here either, of course, but the nice officials spend half an hour drawing me a detailed map – until they fulfil my third request to simply put a cross on my map of Bacolod. It’s still raining, I’m wet enough. Taxi.

The third building is finally right. In the PENRO, 30 officials work side by side in an open-plan office paved with piles of paper. They look at me and my schnitzel on wheels with the kind of funny looks that are only natural. Then they outdo each other with their willingness to help. Very nice indeed. But they don’t understand that after this bus journey I really can’t accept the offer of a chair.

The officer in charge, Angelo, isn’t there, but that wouldn’t be a problem, says a Philippina with a cold. She sends him a text message and he replies shortly. Just under an hour later, she’s still not there. I give up for good. No sunrise at the volcano after a night in a tent at 2200 metres. Instead, another sunset in another filthy city. There’s no point in travelling in this weather anyway. Two taxi numbers are taken, I have to walk a long way through the rain on a roll of shavings.

I don’t want the little street urchin to whistle a taxi for me. I can do that myself. And I can’t give anything if someone begs for more. The taxi driver thinks I’m vanilla ice cream. I offer to melt it for him if he turns the air conditioning up just 20 degrees. He ignores it. In the hotel. I’m sitting by the loo when I realise: no paper.

I feel a growing dissonance between my body and my mind. So I walk through the rain to Mac Donald’s. A bit of dirty frass and my body and mind are on the same level. The woman in front of me orders for a 27-person children’s birthday party. Despite her lack of vocabulary, she interprets my delighted exclamation of “Bacolod, fixdirt!” perfectly.