About Small Villages

I grew up in a small village. My childhood there was something between boring and cruel. Life only got better when I moved to the big city. Now I’m happy there. And yet: on all my travels, the small villages are always heaven on earth for me. Magdivan is one such small village.

The boys play basketball in front of the school. A large sign adorns the entrance: “Elementary School”. Directly behind it is a wall: “You are entering a drug-free zone”. The marketplace. There is little to buy, but perhaps that is precisely why there is enough. The trike riders doze in the sun. I stock up on my sunglasses. The wind is blowing today. It doesn’t bother me. Quiet in the village.

I get hungry and go to my last little hostel. Vicky doesn’t have any food, I’d like to get some at the market. I do. She wants almost nothing for the preparation, the ingredients cost even less. Food and a film on HBO. Sleeping to the gentle breeze in the tree house. My journey will soon be over. A good, quiet end.

In the evening, Max comes back down from Mount Guinting-Guinting. He has actually managed to complete a 20-hour three-day tour within two days, according to all the information on the internet and in the guidebooks. He was lucky, the weather was better for two days than in the last few weeks. The pictures are amazing, but with his description of the topography (“wall on the left, 100 metres down on the right”) I’m sure it’s a good thing I stayed down.

In the evening, we celebrate his summit assault on Hotel California with the housekeepers of the estate. I give him the title Mad Max. The brandy is quickly decimated. The Filipinos do the same, they can take much less than we can. They stagger home babbling, Max crawls up the stairs into the tree house. And I’m starting to feel like writing something else.