Filipinos like to drink rum. Lots of rum. So they need a lot of sugar cane. Much of it is grown in the coastal plains north of Dumaguete on Negros. I hire a Cross machine and head north. Endless green seas of sugar cane. Ancient lorries loaded five metres high with sugar cane drive him to the distilleries. On the empty return journey, they look like upturned whale skeletons on wheels.
The whole thing reminds me brutally of the northern Dominican Republic near Puerto Plata. The Philippinos have even copied the narrow-gauge railway. The road is halfway in order after Typhoon Washi. But some bridges are missing and there are some completely overloaded detours. Muddy mattresses hang outside the houses to dry.
In Bais I could visit dolphins and orcas in the sea near the coast. They like to travel in the strait between Cebu and Negros. Tourists, on the other hand, only ever go to the same places. Not here. A whole boat on its own is too expensive. I drive on.
North of Bais, one of the few undamaged roads leads inland. I follow it past landslides over many hairpin bends for about 50 kilometres into the mountains. There is nobody here. No foreigners, no sexpats, no private vehicles with more than three wheels. In some villages there is a local council meeting. A few hundred residents are squatting by the roadside. By late afternoon, I’m almost 100 kilometres from Dumaguete. Time to turn back, it gets dark here at 17:30.
The return journey is tiring. Smoking waste power stations in front of me, buses overtaking in the opposite direction in the opposite lane. Flashing up here doesn’t mean “watch out for speed traps” but “my radiator is more stable”. Their driving style is the only contrast to the friendly Filipino mentality. I adapt to it. Overtaking on the right, closed roadworks lanes, honking 30 times a minute. Then I’m off.
I arrive in Dumaguete just as dusk falls. Almost all my travelling friends have moved on. One is still there. We treat ourselves to schnitzel and goat at a Tyrolean inn. I get a cheap private transfer to Sipalay tomorrow, which saves a good five hours of the worst bus journey on gravel. Dumaguete and Harold’s Mansion were unexpectedly worth a visit. Time to move on.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.