Of Crusaders And Permanent Campers

I find two types of “travellers” extremely distasteful. One is the cruise traveller, the other is the long-term camper. Both take the meaning and purpose of travelling ad absurdum. The cruisers think that just because their bums are moving, they are travelling. A conspicuous number suffer a heart attack when they actually follow a short procession to some completely overcrowded tourist attraction.

The others are the permanent campers. What is the point of a home that was built for travelling but is only ever in one place? Travellers are free at heart, permanent campers only have free choice in prejudice. Why do permanent campers like lace curtains and garden gnomes behind hunter’s fences, but not hollow bricks?

This time we arrive at the harbour at the right time. But unfortunately, the right time is also wrong. Ticket counter, exchange eticket for real ticket. Passport control one. On to the entrance to the pier, passport/ticket control two. Security check, everything is scanned. Metal scanner. My pocket knife is taken into custody, as are a couple of pistols and the office scissors of some policemen in front of us. A sign hangs on the wall: “Bomb jokes are against Philippine Law.”. Politically incorrect jokes cost five years in prison or 660 euros.

Passage, ticket control three, exit check-in ticket control four, boarding, ticket control five, arrival in Tourist Class and bunk assignment ticket control six. Bed linen issue ticket control seven. The probability of a fare dodger blowing up the ferry is about the same as the probability that there will be no non-swimmers on board in the event of a ferry accident.

We hit the sack. After six hours, I wake up and see the sunrise … behind the Manila skyline? Fuck! We’re permanent campers on a cruise! Prejudices circle like vultures over my cerebral cortex. The railing would be much nicer in a hunter’s fence design. And I miss a crocheted border around my pillowcase. The rest of my brain is atomised by Filipino videoke singing in the restaurant. The coastguard hasn’t released the ferry yet. Someone has probably smuggled a pin on board. They’ve been looking for it for 15 hours now.

Nobody says anything, nobody knows anything. When do they leave? “Anytime.”. A German long-term camper sits down at our table. His double name Klaus-Dieter testifies to the trauma he suffered as a child because of his extremely decisive parents. He now tries to make up for this and throws up a pile of packet opinions and prejudices on the table in front of us. A white Adidas shirt stretches over his bum.

We are being pandered to. Cutting announcements every minute in Tagalog and English over all the loudspeakers disturb my sleep. I escape into an audiobook. A sailor wakes me up. I have won the prize for the greatest cruiser. The prize is a cap. The Filipinos applaud after grinning secretively all day when I hit my head again in one of the rooms that are far too low. I do the Quasimodo in the restaurant. A helmet would have been nicer.

There’s a rumour of an accident, so the coastguard is busy and no ship can sail. “The last one to bite the dog” is not an Asian proverb, is it? We are on the oldest Superferry barge. And it’s finally setting sail, 20 hours late. The videoke system starts up. The dogs are howling again. What am I more afraid of now?